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WELL OUT OL IT 











































































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WELL OUT OL IT 


Six Days in the Life of an Ex-Teacher 


BY 

JOHN HABBERTON 

author of “Helen’s babies,” “out at twinnett’s,” etc. 


{ MAY 2.5 its.; 

• • 4 t - ... . 

llOls 1% 

NEW YORK 

JOHN A. TAYLOR AND COMPANY 
1 19 Potter Building 




. H 


iii'vf 


Copyright, 1892, by 

JOHN A. TAYLOR AND COMPANY 


1 


/ 


CONTENTS 


FIRST DAY. 

PAGE 

I Was a School-Ma'am . . 7 

SECOND DAY. 

The Teacher is Taught, ..... 39 

THIRD DAY. 

Wet-Weather Wisdom, 71 

FOURTH DAY. 

A Counterfeit Presentment, . . . . c8 

FIFTH DAY. 

Excursions, Rural and Otherwise, . . . .127 

SIXTH DAY. 

The Unexpected Happens, 158 






WELL OUT OF IT, 


Six Days in the Life of an Ex-Teacher. 


FIRST DAY. 

I WAS A SCHOOL-MA’AM. 

If any one had told me, a few years ago, that 
the time would come when I should industriously 
devote five days of every seven to the teaching of 
stupid children and the disorganization of my own 
nerves, I should have classed him among the false 
prophets. But there came a love-affair which re- 
sulted unpleasantly ; it was merely the old story 
of a man marrying one woman while another who 
loved him better was hesitating to say “yes.” 
Coming of stock whose attachments are few but 
strong, I did not recover quietly and cheerily, 
like some feminine experts at the game of love, 


8 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


and our family physician, who seemed to suspect 
the truth, prescribed steady mental occupation as 
the only probable cure for my low spirits. 

So I became a teacher in a public school, and 
the desired effect was slowly attained. I ought to 
have learned to love the school-room for what it 
did for me, but I did not. Once familiar with 
the routine, and successful beyond my expecta- 
tion, it seemed wrong to abandon the work, par- 
ticularly as the city children of whom my classes 
were composed were the most uninteresting of 
their kind, and consequently the most needy. 
Nevertheless, when vacation came and my family 
agreed that a month in the country was necessary 
to my physical well-being, I advertised for a 
boarding-house in which there were no children 
of any age or condition. 

The place which I finally selected seemed a ver- 
itable haven of rest. It was kept by two old 
ladies who knew the value of peace and quietness, 
and whose house was in the centre of a large es- 
tate, the eastern edge of which commanded a view 
upon which no child could intrude without first 
crossing the Atlantic Ocean. There was not a 
house in sight; yet I had scarcely swung a ham- 
mock in a little cluster of pines, and become in- 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


9 


terested in the first chapter of a novel, when I was 
disturbed by a childish voice exclaiming: 
“Hello!” 

“ Go away, little girl ; go right away, ” said I, 
as I turned my head and saw a small figure con- 
sisting principally of large blue eyes, yellow hair, 
and dirty calico frock. 

“ I don’t fink you’s very polite,” said the little 
creature, without moving. 

“ There are times when politeness is a mistake,” 
said I. The child, still immovable, stared and 
replied: 

“ I’s sorry for you. My gran’ma finks ev’ybody 
ought to be sorried for dat wasn’t brought up to 
speak polite to strangers. Didn’t you have no 
gran’ma — or muvver — to teach you to talk nice?” 

I rose quickly to give the little upstart one of 
the glances which had always been sufficient to 
annihilate an impudent pupil. The hammock 
was not in sympathy with me : it was one of those 
loose-netted Mexican abominations which always 
act just as they shouldn’t, so in a second or two I 
found myself in a most undignified position on the 
great mattress of pine-needles that covered the 
ground. 

“You did dat .dreadful funny!” said the child, 


IO 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


after a hearty peal of laughter. “ Let’s see if I 
can’t do it.” 

Before I could recover my dignity, the child 
had climbed into the hammock and was making 
frantic struggles to fall out. She was so small and 
light, however, that she remained like a bundle 
in the bottom of the net, and her struggles merely 
gave her face a great deal of color and made her 
eyes brighter. Finally she sighed: 

“ I guess I’ll have to get rested; after dat, you 
can show me how to do it. ” Then she composed 
herself in the hammock, and continued: “You 
can swing me, if you want to ; I like to swing in 
hammocks. ” 

“So do I,” said I, with all the impressiveness 
that five years of authority over children had given 
me. The child looked wonderingly at me for a 
moment, and then merrily shouted: 

“ Come along, den. I guess I can make room 
for you.” Suiting the action to the word, the 
midget sat upright and nodded invitingly. 

I was beginning to be amused, though only in 
the manner of the cat who plays with the mouse 
whom she intends soon to slay. As I sat down 
the child cuddled close to me, put a chubby hand 
in mine, and said: 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


“You must hold me tight, now, so I can’t drop 
out.” 

“ A moment ago, ” said I, as I put an arm around 
the child, “you wanted to drop out.” 

“Oh, yes, but dat was den; an’ dis is now. 
Don’t you see? Now go on swingin’.” 

I put one foot to the ground to set the ham- 
mock in motion, and the wee thing began to 
sing: 

Swing — swong, 

Swing — swong, 

-Swing, ah, swingee, swing, swong! 

This ridiculous jingle continued for some mo- 
ments, but finally a bar was succeeded by : 

“Say! if you don’t swing faster I can’t keep 
breff enough to sing.” 

“That would indeed be sad,” said I. , fi Don’t 
you think, now, it is time for you to go home?” 

“No, indeed,” said the child; “we won’t have 
dinner for ever so long. ” 

“And do you mean to remain here until then?” 
I asked, with a downward glance intended to be 
withering. 

“ Why, to be sure; where else is I to go?” 

“I’m sure I don’t know; but I want to read and 
be quiet.” 


T 2 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


“Oh, well,” said the child, “dere won’t be any 
trouble ’bout dat, I guess. You can be as quiet 
as you want to; I can do all de talkin’.” 

“How thoughtful of you!” I murmured. 

“Oh, is it?” said she, her eyes brightening. 
“I’ll tell gran’ma you said dat, an’ den she’ll 
give me a penny. She’s try in’ ever so hard to 
make me foughtful.” 

“ I fear your grandma has a hard task before 
her. What is your name, little girl?” 

“Alice Hope.” 

“ Well, Alice, if you’ll run away now, and leave 
me with my book, I will be very much obliged to 
you. ” 

“ Is you learnin’ a lesson from de book?” 

“No, I’m merely reading a story.” 

“ Oh, well, gran’ma don’t fink much of people 
dat reads stories in de mornin’, when dere’s so 
much work to be done.” 

“I’m glad, then, for your grandma’s sake, that 
I am not one of her children this summer.” 

“ But gran’ma’s awful nice. All de little girls 
I know would rawer have her dan deir own gran’- 
mas. She’s always got peppermint candies in her 
pocket.” 

Peppermint ! Every woman of the slums who 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


13 


ever came to me to complain of my treatment of 
her child chewed some candied preparation of 
peppermint. I could thank my visitor for awak- 
ening some most abhorrent memories. Her grand- 
mother was probably a horrid old village crone, 
who managed her son’s or daughter’s family as if 
it were her own. This child, who, I was slowly 
realizing, was quite pretty, and with intelligent 
features — had she no parents? 

“Alice,” said I, “why don’t your mother put a 
clean dress on you before she lets you go out to 
visit strangers?” 

“ My muvver?” exclaimed the child, with wide- 
open eyes, which soon began to twinkle roguishly. 
“ How do you s’ pose she could put clothes on 
me, ’way down here, when she’s ’way up in de 
sky? ” 

“ Oh, I beg your pardon, ” said I quickly and 
kindly. “You see, I didn’t know your mother 
was dead.” 

“She isn’t dead; she’s just as alive as you. 
You don’t s’ pose dere’s dead folks up in de sky, 
do you? Why, dey’d drop down an’ all smash to 
bits. You wouldn’t like to be dead if you was up 
dere, would you?” 

“ N — no ; I suppose not, ” said I ; “ and I am very 


14 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


sorry for you, little Alice, that your mother isn’t 
with you. ” 

“/ isn’t,” said the youngster, as cheerily as if 
losing a mother were not a matter of grief. “ She 
don’t have to be sick any more, nor be bovvered 
’bout servants, which gran’ma says is dreadful, 
an’ she can sing all she wants to, an’ her clothes 
never gets dirty, like mine is once in a while. ” 

“ How do you know?” 

“’Cause gran’ma says so; dat’s how. An’ my 
fahver says she was just de kind to enjoy heaven, 
’cause she didn’t ever like trouble.” 

“We would all be up in the sky, I suppose, if 
dislike of trouble would put us there. But some 
one ought to see that your dresses are kept clean. 
All the children who come to my school, no matter 
how poor they are, must wear clean clothes.” 

“ Does you keep a school?” asked the child, sud- 
denly looking very sober. “ I guess I’ll go ’way 
from you, den.” 

“Stop, please,” I said in haste. “Alice, dear 
little girl, I’m not dreadful, though I chance to be 
a teacher. You were telling me about your 
mother.” 

“ Yes. You don’t s’pose my muvver is goin’ to 
take care of my clothes now, do you, while she’s 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


15 


up in de sky? She can’t have no nasty old wash- 
tubs up dere, ’cause dere wouldn’t be noffin’ dere 
to stand ’em on, you know. Say! is you got any 
children?” 

“ Only some that belong to other people.” 

“ Wh-y-y-y! Well, if you takes care of uvver 
folks’ little girls, an’ likes to do it, you can wash 
my clothes for me yourself, if you want to.” 

“Thanks, but that’s a little beyond my capacity. 
Do you go to school?” 

“No. I don’t like to go to school. School- 
teachers is horrid.” 

“ Thanks again. Where did you learn your let- 
ters?” 

“ Don’t know any letters, only what’s in my 
name. Dey’re all dat’s mine. Say! can you 
climb trees?” 

“ No: it isn’t lady-like to climb trees.” 

“ Can you make dams?” 

“No: it isn’t lady-like to make dams, either.” 

There was a pause, and a searching, pitying 
look. Then the child sighed : 

“I’s awful sorry for you, dat you has to be 
lady-like. Say! it isn’t not-lady-like to eat sassa- 
fras-bark, is it — just to bite it off of de littlest 
branches — de very littlest ?” 


i6 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


“ I fear it is.” 

“O you poor fing!” she sighed, throwing her 
arms around my skirts. “ I’s awful sorry for you. ” 

“ Thanks for your sympathy, little girl. ” The 
child’s embrace was so close and long that I could 
not help returning it. Suddenly she released me, 
looked soberly into my face, and asked • 

“ Say! it isn’t not-lady-like for you to play wiff 
dolls, is it?” 

“ I — I scarcely know ; I shall have to think about 
it.” 

“Well, dere’s one way to find out: you can 
try. I’ll go get my dolls an’ bring ’em up here; 
an’ you play wiff ’em, an’ if you don’t do it lady- 
like I’ll tell you. You needn’t be afraid I won’t; 
for my dolls is very particular ’bout how dey’s 
played wiff — all of ’em but Agonies.” 

“ Agonies?” 

“ Yes: Agonies is a low-downer, gran’ma says — 
always gettin’ down on de floor and in de dirt. I 
can’t teach her no manners at all. You stay here 
while I go bring ’em, an’ while I’m gone you can 
take your fink ’bout whether it’s lady-like to play 
wiff ’em.” 

The child tumbled out of the hammock and 
tripped away with an odd motion like the steps of 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


17 


a waltz, while I began to wonder how I had so 
patiently endured the interruption. I followed 
her with my eyes until she was hidden by the 
shrubbery. She certainly was a picturesque, 
merry, confiding little creature — quite unlike the 
solid, suspicious beings whom it had been my 
daily lot to meet. Already I felt guilty at the 
dislike of children that had taken possession of 
me. But it was not all my fault. If Frank 
Wayne hadn’t been impatient at my hesitation, 
and married a pretty-faced doll, I should never 
have been tormented almost to death in a class- 
room and learned to hate the sight of children. 
’Twas all his fault — not mine. The thought threw 
me into moody musing, as the recollection of my 
great sorrow always did. How long it might have 
continued I do not know, for it was interrupted 
in a few moments by — 

“Well, isn’t you done dat fink yet? I didn’t 
s’pose it would make you look so sad.” 

Raising my head quickly, I saw before me little 
Alice and a collection of dolls such as I did not 
imagine could be found outside of the play-room 
of an infant asylum. I endeavored to count them, 
but the effort ended abruptly when the child leaned 
over me and dropped her entire family into the 
2 


1 8 


WELL OUT OF IT, 


hammock, most of them falling on my head and 
face. 

“Dere!” she exclaimed. “ I’s like de old wo- 
man dat lived inashoe — I’ s got so many children I 
don’t know what to do. Say! you must be care- 
ful!” — for I was struggling to extricate myself 
from the mass of figures, limbs, and skirts. 
“You’ll hurt some of ’em. I don’t fink you’d 
make a very nice muvver, if you’d treat uvver 
children like you treat mine.” 

“I beg your pardon,” said I, extricating myself 
from the hammock, “ but really ” 

“Dere! You’s doin’ it again!” shrieked the 
child, picking up a doll which had escaped from 
the hammock with me. “ I do declare if it ain’t 
Agonies! Dat child does beat all for gettin’ in 
de dirt! When any of ’em tumbles down I just 
know it’s Agonies, first fing.” 

“Where did you get the name of that doll, 
Alice?” 

“Named her after gran’ma’s cook; looks just 
like her — always mussy.” 

I thought a moment, and then asked: 

“ Is the cook’s name Agnes?” 

“Well,” said the child, half contemptuously, 
half despairingly, “ if her name isn’t Agonies, 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


19 


how could my doll’s name be Agonies, I’d like to 
know?” 

There seemed no appropriate answer to this 
question, so I said: 

“ I wouldn’t have misunderstood you if you had 
talked plainer. How old are you, Alice?” 

“ Five years old.” 

“ You’re old enough to speak plain,’ then, and 
I’ll teach you if you like.” 

“ But I don’t like. My fahver says he believes 
he would kill somebody if dey’d make me talk 
plain. You wouldn’t like to be killed, would you 
— not before you got acquainted wiff my dolls? ” 

“It might be advisable to die first,” said I, 
looking at the sprawling figures that covered the 
bottom of the hammock. Meanwhile the doll 
mother began to arrange the disordered garments 
of her brood, and to seat each doll decorously in 
the hammock. When all was done she looked 
along the line with an air of motherly satisfaction, 
and said : 

“ Which one would you rather be introduced to 
first?” 

“ I think, ” said I, glancing along the line, “ that 
Agnes looks like the class of children I am most 
used to. Her face and clothing and general ap- 


20 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


pearance remind me strongly of some old acquaint- 
ances.” 

“ Den I’m afraid,” said the child, looking at me 
critically, “dat you wasn’t well brought up. I 
don’t like Agonies much, but I’s dreadful sorry 
for her — she’s such a forlorn wretch. I could 
just cry, sometimes, when I fink about what Ag- 
onies is.” 

How often had I felt thus to some repellent lit- 
tle wretch in my class-room ! The thought of it 
made me surprise little Alice by picking her up 
and kissing her — an act which, I confess, sur- 
prised me also. 

“You’re a soft-hearted little dear,” I said as I 
released her. 

“Well,” she replied, “ my fahver says a soft 
heart is better dan a hard head. ” 

“ Your papa is a discerning man,” said I. 

“Of course he is, if di-surnin means somefin’ 
nice. Well, if you fink Agonies is most like you, 
you’d better begin playin’ wifi: her, ’cause it’ll be 
her bedtime ’fore long. Just look at her foot, 
where de kitten pulled two of her toes off. I 
couldn’t be sorry for her like I ought to, first time 
I saw her toes wasn’t dere, cause dey didn’t look 
like dey’d bleeded any, so I just rubbed some 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


2 I 


strawberry on de place to make it look like bleedin’, 
den I cried like ev’ryfin’ — why, I cried two whole 
hankecheffs full! I didn’t spank her for about 
a week — I just couldn’t have de heart to do it, 
dough she was bein’ awful bad all de whole time.” 

“Poor Agnes!” said I, picking up the limp, 
dingy doll as one would lift an unattractive kit- 
ten from the mud. 

“ She likes to be kissed, ” said the child. I did 
not act upon this suggestion, so Alice continued : 
“ An’ I don’t fink she likes to have her name made 
short like you do it. You oughtn’t to call her 
‘Agnes’ ; you ought to say Agonies.” 

“ Agonies?” 

“Yes: dat’s 'bout it, I guess.” 

For an hour or more my new acquaintance prat- 
tled on and played with her dolls, talking to them 
quite as much as to me, and treating them en- 
tirely as if they were human beings. I marvelled 
for a little while that any one’s imaginative fac- 
ulty could be so strong ; but finally I found myself 
drifting into sincere admiration of the child her- 
self. I guiltily called myself to account, and 
reminded myself of the principal stipulation I had 
made in advertising for a boarding-place. What 
would my venerable landladies say should they 


22 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


see me taking so much interest in a child whom I 
had never seen until that day? What peace or 
rest would I get if I allowed myself to be visited 
daily by this small visitor and her brood of dolls? 
I must banish her at once, empty my hammock of 
counterfeit humanity, and resume the quiet loung- 
ing for which I had come to the country. 

I waited for an appropriate moment, studying 
the child’s face in the mean time. The fresh 
complexion, cheerful manner, and entire lack of 
consciousness were so unlike what my profession 
doomed me to see in children that I moaned as 
I realized how entirely some phases of child-nature 
had escaped my notice and sympathy. Little 
Alice caught the sound, which I had imagined in- 
audible to any one but myself. She turned 
quickly and exclaimed : 

“ Wonder which of my children it was dat made 
dat noise, like as if dey wasn’t happy ’bout some- 
fin’!” 

Then she looked at me with mock severity, and 
continued : “ Why, I do believe it’s you ! De idea ! 
A great big girl like you makin’ such a grumble 
as dat! I should fink you was awful hungry, an’ 
had to wait ever so long yet for your dinner.” 

“ I am hungry, little girl — heart-hungry, ” said 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


2 3 


I, thinking aloud rather than intending to speak 
so plainly. 

“ Well, I don’t see where you spec’s to get any 
hearts to eat,” said the child. “Never heard of 
anybody eatin’ hearts, anyhow.” 

“You didn’t understand me rightly,” said I. 

“Tell me all ’bout it, den,” said she. abandon- 
ing her dolls and again clasping my knees and 
looking up into my face. The child’s counte- 
nance was like an angel’s, it seemed to me, so 
pure and full of soul. But while I wondered 
whether to reply, and how, little Alice suddenly 
changed her pose; she relaxed her grasp, stood 
upright, and turned her head as if intently listen- 
ing, then exclaimed: 

“Sure’s I live, that’s our dinner-bell. I’s got 
to go. You can tell me all ’bout it some uvver 
time. Your tell can wait, don’t you see? but my 
hungry can’t wait a single second longer, seems to 
me. ” 

“You are forgetting your dolls,” said I coldly, 
as the heartless infant who preferred dinner to 
me started skippingly away. 

“Oh! no, I isn’t,” she said, with a backward 
toss of her head. “ I’s leavin’ ’em for you to play 
wiff. Dey hasn’t had a chance at such a nice 


24 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


hammock in a long time, an’ I hasn’t de heart to 
make ’em come home.” 

The signal for my own dinner was given soon 
afterward, and as I was as yet the only boarder, 
I naturally chatted with my landladies at table, 
and had to guard my tongue closely to keep from 
asking questions about my new acquaintance. 
To avoid committing myself, I hurried back to 
the hammock, removed all the dolls, laid them 
side by side on the pine-leaves, found my novel, 
and resumed the thread of the story. I soon was 
absorbed in the joys and woes of the author’s char- 
acters, and had forgotten Alice Hope and her 
make-believe family; but a little while afterward 
I heard a familiar voice exclaiming: 

“Well, if I ever!” 

I looked over the edge of the hammock ; there 
stood little Alice, with a sober, puzzled face, con- 
templating her dolls. 

She stared at them a moment or two, turned 
gravely toward me, and said : 

“You don’t understand dolls very well, do you? 
You’ve gone an’ sent ’em to bed all wrong. 
There’s Mahjerie Daw and Missis Bond side by 
side. Anybody ought to know dose two oughtn’t 
ever to be^togevver; dey fights awful.” 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


25 


“ Don’t be silly, little girl; they ” 

“Oh, you fink I’s silly, do you? Well, you’ll 
know better one of dese days, I hope. An’ dere’s 
Captain Jinks an’ Black Peter right aside of each 
uvver. I wonder de captain don’t frow Pete 
away; Pete always sleeps down at de captain’s 
feet — so.” Suiting the action to the word, the 
child carefully rearranged her insensate charges. 

“ Alice, I like to see little girls play with their 
dolls, but it isn’t sensible to pretend that they 
are real people.” 

“ Goodness! You’s dreadful sensible, isn’t you? 
Don’t you ever make b’lieve your dolls is real 
folks?” 

“ I haven’t any dolls.” 

“Oh! I forgot; of course not; you’s too big to 
have dolls, I s’pose, you poor fing! Well, don’t 
you ever play dat real folks is what dey ain’t?” 

“ Of course not. ” 

“ Den I guess you’s had a tough time. My 
fahver says dat folks is nicer for what you fink ’em 
dan what dey is — most folks. ” 

“ Does your father put such ideas into your in- 
nocent little head?” 

“ Of course not, ’’said the child, contemptuously. 
“ He says ’em to gran’ma, sometimes, an’ my head 


26 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


just takes ’em in for itself ; dat’s how it is. Say, 
you don’t fink folks ain’t noffin’ but what dey act 
like, do you? ’Cause my fahver says dat ain’t 
fair; so of course it ain’t, ’cause he knows.” 

Slowly, but surely, the idea took possession of 
me that this child’s father must be either a Solon 
or a prig. Frank Wayne had once talked to me a 
great deal of stuff like that which the child had 
been repeating in a parrot-like manner, and it had 
annoyed me a great deal, for I really liked him 
and was trying to love him ; but what girl who is 
trying to persuade herself that she is in love can 
have any patience with talk that sounds like ethi- 
cal discussion? It all came back to me, as this 
mere infant prattled about matters entirely beyond 
her comprehension, and it forced me, as she talked, 
into a brown study, from which I was roused by 
the remark : 

“ Say ! do you know you look just de way I look 
in a lookin’ -glass after I’s took some medicine dat 
I don’t like one single bit?” 

I made haste to compose my face and profess 
some interest in the dolls. The change in my 
manner would have been acceptable to an adult, 
but Miss Alice Hope was not an adult. As I had 
learned in the class-room, the one task harder 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


27 


than to get an idea into a juvenile head is that of 
getting an idea out. The child returned to the 
subject by remarking: 

“ You must have had a dreadful not-comfortable 
fink in your tinker a little while ago. Why didn't 
you frow it out? I wouldn’t carry not-comfort- 
able finks when dere’s such a lot of nice ones dat 
anybody can get if dey want ’em ; dat’s what my 
fahver says. ” 

“ Your father must be a very lucky man, to be 
able to have only pleasant thoughts. I wish I 
knew how he contrived to do it. ” 

“Do you? Well, / can tell you, ’cause he told 
me one day. When any bovvers comes into his 
mind he just goes to finkin’ ’bout me right away, 
an’ all de bad finks tumbles out of his mind right 
off. You can do it if you want to; I don’t mind 
havin’ two people fink about me. I don’t see why 
finkin’ ’bout me makes bad finks go- ’way; does 
you?” 

“Yes, I do — you little witch,” said I, snatching 
her in my arms and kissing her soundly. 

“Don’t make me drop Dolly,” she screamed. 
This remark cooled my admiration to such an 
extent that I dropped the child somewhat hastily. 
Apparently she did not note my change of feeling, 


28 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


for as she resumed attentions to her brood she 
continued :> 

“ Well, if you understand it, I suppose it’s all 
right, dough of course ’twould be anyhow, seem’ 
my fahver says so.” 

How much more of this nonsense was I doomed 
to listen to? Not that I disliked it; it was amus- 
ing rather than otherwise; it was so unexpected 
that it might have been far less sensible without 
offending one who for years had found only stu- 
pidity, sullenness, or impudence in children. 
(There were no children in our family.) But, 
amusing though it was, it was unfair to the child 
to encourage it. Evidently little Alice Hope was 
“ running wild” — the pet of an indulgent grand- 
mother and a careless father — a combination that 
would ruin the mind of the best child alive. She 
needed the formative and restraining influence of 
a mother, or, lacking that, kindly but close disci- 
pline by a good teacher. Her own dislike of 
teachers, and her father’s contempt for them, 
proved this. 

Then I wished she might be in my school. She 
would be like a lily among weeds ; but how de- 
lightful it would be, sometimes, for my weary eyes 
to rest upon her ! How carefully, even from grat- 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


2 9 


itude alone, would I endeavor to train the mind 
of so cheery a being! It could not be: the mere 
thought of transporting her to the city horrified 
me; but why should I not endeavor to improve 
her character somewhat while we were near each 
other? Of one thing I was certain : however dis- 
tasteful my professional duties had been, I had 
acquired and developed a faculty for training im- 
mature minds. My progress with any special 
case had been slow enough to be depressing, but, 
as I frequently reminded myself, the material 
was most unpromising. The greatest Teacher 
who ever spoke had himself admitted that good 
seed could flourish only on good ground. But if 
I were to choose my own material upon which to 
work, what could be more inviting than this child, 
who had forced herself upon my attention, and at 
least a little way into my heart, in spite of my 
effort to exclude her and all of her kind? Per- 
haps here was to be my compensation for years of 
labor, which until now had been almost dishearten- 
ing. Would the results of my training last? 
Might they not all be undone by her grandmother, 
who I felt was a horrid old woman, and her fa- 
ther, who seemed to be a crank, or at least a fellow 
of many affectations? ' Well, suppose they were? 


3 ° 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


The risk was no greater than with all my previous 
infant charges, and from the selfish standpoint 
alone the work promised to be its own reward. 

“ Alice,” said I. 

There was no reply. The child was leaning 
over one of her dolls, who had been laid at the 
root of the tree and covered with a handker- 
chief. 

“Alice,” I repeated. 

The child turned her head, shook it slightly, 
frowned a little, and put her finger to her lips in a 
warning way. What utter nonsense! Of one 
thing I assured myself : I would endeavor to train 
her imagination and keep it from running riot. 
A character which began with imagination, I said 
to myself, would become as ridiculous as a house 
of which a builder should first elaborate the cor- 
nice, while the foundation and frame remained 
bare and neglected. 

“ Missis Bond was sayin’ her prayers before 
takin’ her afternoon nap,” said the child, rising 
and rejoining me. “ It isn’t nice to talk while 
anybody’s sayin’ deir prayers. Of course you 
didn’t know she was sayin’ ’em, else you 
wouldn’t have done it.” 

“My dear little child,” said I, kindly — I was 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


31 


determined not to repel her by any abruptness of 
manner or statement — “how did you ever come 
to imagine that your dolls pray or can pray?” 

“ Dey ain’t dolls; dey’s my children,” said she, 
“an’ all little children ought to say deir prayers 
before dey go to sleep, even to take a nap : my fahver 
says so. He says dere’s nobody but de Lord who 
is sure to know all ’bout what folks need when 
dey is asleep. ” 

“Your father is quite right,” said I; “but he 
wasn’t talking about make-believe people, like 
your dolls. ” 

This assertion set the child to thinking, at 
which I was delighted; there is nothing good that 
may not be hoped for in the pupil who thinks. I 
did not disturb her. It would be time for me to 
speak when she reached some conclusion through 
the exercise of her own reasoning powers. She 
looked at her dolls, several of whom had already 
been placed in make-believe beds ; then she gravely 
said: 

“If you don’t treat make-b’lieve folks de same 
as you do real folks, what’s de good of makin’ 
b’lieve at all?” 

“Treat your dolls as dolls — just what they are,” 
said I. “ They are only playthings. Other little 


32 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


girls are satisfied with playthings just as they 
are; why shouldn’t you be like them?” 

“ I ain’t goin’ to try to be satisfied wiff old 
heads, an’ arms, an’ bodies, an’ feet, if I can’t 
make b’lieve dey’s people.” 

“ But, dear, you know they’re not people, don’t 
you?” 

“ Yes, but I can forget it as soon as I begins to 
play wiff ’em. I don’t have no good times till I 
do forget it. De idea of lovin’ Missis Bond just 
de way she is! Why, if I couldn’t make b’lieve 
’ bout her, I ’ d f row her in de street. N asty old fing ! ’ ’ 

“ Alice!” 

“Oh, I don’t mean you — I mean Missis Bond,” 
said she, going over to the pretended feminine 
of the pretended prayer. She uncovered the 
recumbent figure, looked at it steadily, and an ex- 
pression of disgust began to creep over her face. 
Suddenly she dropped the extempore spread, threw 
herself down upon the pine-needles, and burst 
into tears. 

“ Alice, my child ” 

“Ain’t your, child. I was goin’ to like you, but 
I won’t try any more.” 

“ Dear little girl, I didn’t mean to hurt your 
feelings. I am very, very sorry. ” 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


33 


“ Den,” she sobbed, “ I suppose I’s got to forgive 
you. My fahver says we must forgive bad folks 
when dey’ re sorry. But I don’t want to forgive 
you — not one single bit.” 

“ But what have I done?” I asked. “ I like to 
see little girls enjoy their playthings; no one likes 
it better. ” 

“ You — you just likes to see ’em do it your way 
— dat’s all. You don’t like me to enjoy Missis 
Bond and de rest of de children my way, an’ you’s 
just ’bout made me hate ’em. Oh, dear, dear!” 

A new flood of tears followed. I assured my- 
self that I never before had seen such a silly, un- 
reasonable being; nevertheless I could not help 
feeling a little guilty. The regard for the 
wretched dolls as human beings certainly was af- 
fected; but just as certainly the child’s grief was 
genuine. What was I to do about it? I could 
not say I had been in the wrong; neither could I 
bear to see the little thing so unhappy. 

“Alice,” said I, lying down beside her, “I am 
very, very sorry I said anything at all about your 
dolls, for you are a dear, sweet little thing, and 
I can’t bear to see you unhappy.” 

She made no reply, so I put my arm around her, 
and continued : 

\ 

3 


34 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


“ Don\ you believe me?” 

“Yes,” she answered, in a somewhat choked 
voice, “I suppose I’ s got to.” Nevertheless she 
continued to sob. 

“Won’t you stop crying, then? It makes me 
dreadfully unhappy to hear such a dear little girl 
cry so pitifully.” 

“Well, you — you made me dreadfully unhappy. 
You don’t fink I ought to have all de Unhappy an’ 
you not to have any of it, does you, when I didn’t 
do noffin’ bad, an’ you did?” 

“I don’t want either of us to be so,” said I, 
“and I wouldn’t ‘do noffin’ bad’ to you for any- 
thing. I was only trying to teach you something 
that I thought you ought to know — teach you be- 
cause I am so fond of you. ” 

“ But I don’t want you to teach me. I ain’t a 
school, an’ I told you I didn’t like school-teachers. ” 

“Come, come, dear — school-teachers aren’t such 
dreadful people as you seem to think. A great 
many of them teach only because they are very 
sorry for little children who don’t know anything, 
and will have a great deal of trouble in their lives 
if they don’t learn about a great many things. I 
myself teach a great many children whom I really 
$on’t like — real disagreeable little children — 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


35 


merely because I want them to be spared trouble 
when they grow older.” 

The child raised herself on one elbow, turned a 
tear-stained face toward me, and asked, in the 
gravest manner imaginable : 

“ Does you make dem mizzable, like me, by 
tellin’ ’em dat what dey like isn’t what dey make 
b’lieve it is?” 

“No, no; such teaching only happens by acci- 
dent. I won’t do it again, I promise you.” 

“All right, den,” said the child, making an ef- 
fort to compose herself. “I’ll let you teach me a 
little if you want to, but — noffin’ ’bout dolls; don’t 
you forget dat. I knows all ’bout dolls dat I wants 
to, an’ I know it just how I wants to; so ’tain’t no 
good to teach me some more ’bout ’em.” 

I pretended to agree to this, though I mentally 
reserved the right, and defined to myself the duty, 
of preventing the child from longer being sacri- 
legious to the extent of putting prayers into the 
mouths of her dolls. 

Soon confidence was fully restored. I pillowed 
the child’s head in my lap, as we lay there under 
the pines ; I gently wiped the tear-stains from her 
face, called her attention to a couple of birds chas- 
ing each other through the boughs overhead, and 


36 WELL OUT OF IT. 

learned from her that an odd mixture of noises 
which came from an elm-tree a little way off was 
made by a squirrel and a robin quarrelling about 
a theft of eggs from the robin’s nest. 

“ Dey’s always fightin’ dat way; my fahver has 
made me listen to ’em often, an’ told me what 
’twas all ’bout. I don’t like de squirrels. De 
idea of de mean fings eatin’ de birds’ eggs, so no 
little birds can’t ever come out of ’em! An’ de 
squirrels is so pretty, too. But my fahver says 
you can’t ever tell a fief by his looks.” 

“Your father is a man of sense,” said I, after 
thinking over -the child’s statement a moment. 
It was a remarkably good-looking thief — so I had 
been told, for I never had seen her — who stole 
Frank Wayne’s heart away from me. I had also 
been told that she was the most innocent-looking 
little thing in the world, and that she had shed 
tears copiously when told she had almost broken 
another woman’s heart. She had never known 
that Frank had cared for any other woman, she 
said. There were men enough hanging about any 
pretty girl, so who could suspect her of “ catch- 
ing” another girl’s beau? I suppose the merry, 
chattering, innocent-looking squirrel would in like 
manner protest that he didn’t know the eggs be- 


WELL OUT OF IT, 


37 


longed to the robin ; he knew only that they were 
eggs, aud j us t such eggs as he was sure he liked 
better than any other. Frank’s wife had also said 
that she first came to like him because he looked 
so lonesome as well as handsome — looked just as 
if he were longing for a woman’s love. The 
squirrel probably would say he felt obliged to 
swallow the eggs — they looked exactly as if they 
were longing to be eaten. How, I wondered, did 
that match ever turn out? Fortunately for my 
peace of mind, they had left the city, or rather, 
never came to it, after their marriage; for the girl, 
who was visiting friends when Frank met her, was 
from the country, and when married Frank took 
her to her old home. If he were happy I was glad 
for his sake ; but if the girl were the mere pretty 
doll that had been described to me — if 

“ Sometimes you don’t talk very much, do you?” 
said the child. I did not enjoy the interruption, 
for I was human enough to hug my sorrows closely 
and make the most of them. I made haste to 
reply : 

“I’m afraid I wasn’t being good company just 

then, and How time has flown! That can’t be 

a supper-bell that I hear ringing?” 

“No,” said the child with a sigh; “dat’s 


3« 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


gran’ma ringin’ for me to come home an’ take my 
nap. I’s got to wake all my children now, too; 
dat’s just a burnin’ shame. Good-by. I’ll let you 
teach me somefin’ to-morrow, I guess — but noffin’ 
’bout dolls, remember.” 

“I’ll remember, dear.” 

“ Upon your word an’ honor?” 

- “ Upon my word and honor.” 


SECOND DAY. 


THE TEACHER IS TAUGHT. 

It was with some trepidation, and not a little 
sense of hypocrisy and guilt, that I approached my 
hammock the day that little Alice had kindly 
consented to let me teach her a little, “ but noffin’ 
’bout dolls, remember. ” My landladies — as quaint 
a couple of old persons as I could have imagined, 
but nevertheless true women — appeared to fear I 
would become lonesome for lack of society, and 
perhaps abruptly leave them ; so they were so at- 
tentive that it was almost impossible to escape 
from them without seeming rude. Their conver- 
sation was well worth listening to, if only for curi- 
osity’s sake; for, although they were poor — the 
last remains of a family which once had been in- 
fluential — they were living storehouses of about 
a century of country wit and wisdom, and could 
express opinions brightly on any subject. They 
knew everybody in the vicinity — everybody who 
ever had amounted to anything in business, poli- 
tics or the professions — and their inoffensive gossip 
39 


40 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


was so quaint as to make me long to write a “ His- 
tory of a Rediscovered County.” 

I would call them ladies, had they not been 
possessed by the one demon of savagery which 
seems hardest to exorcise for some natures other- 
wise inoffensive and considerate — a persistent 
impulse to manage the affairs of other people. 
Evidently they thought me a brute for having 
sought a summer resting-place where there were 
no children; for, no matter what the subject of 
conversation at the table, those well-meaning old 
women would deftly pass it to and fro between 
them until by some imperceptible process it got 
back to children, and how good some children 
were — or would be, and how bright others could 
be — bright beyond the expectation of those who 
best knew them. This manifest effort to change 
my opinion began before I had taken a meal in 
the house. 

“You don’t like children; leastways, so I’ve 
been led to suppose,” said Mistress Drusilla, as 
her sister always called her. 

“ Not when I am resting,” I replied. “ At home 
I am obliged to endure forty or fifty of them through 
five days of every seven, and I think I’ve earned 
a respite.” 


well out of it. 


41 


“Most children are pests,” said Miss Dorcas — 
her sister always addressed her by this name and 
title, except when they were alone together — “ but 
it takes exceptions to prove the rule ; for I know 
a young one in this neighborhood whose manners, 
I must say, wouldn’t be thought out of the way in 
some grown folks who are considered quite proper. ” 

“She’s quite a little lady, Alice is,” said Mis- 
tress Drusilla. 

“ Indeed she is, ” said Miss Dorcas. “ She’s orig- 
inal sometimes, and that makes some people think 
her queer ; but, sakes alive, original folks are so 
scarce in this world that they sometimes puzzle 
the very elect.” 

“And Alice is so original,” remarked Mistress 
Drusilla. 

Evidently my hostesses were alluding to my 
new acquaintance, and were desirous of changing 
my opinion of children by bringing us together. 
I would not have objected, had not their manag- 
ing mania been so apparent. As it was, I deter- 
mined to combat their purpose, even if it were 
necessary for me to find new lodgings. I had seen 
managing old women before. 

“Alice comes of real good stock, too,” continued 
Mistress Drusilla “ Her mother was a ” 


42 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


“ Spare me, Mistress Drusilla, please, ” said I, 
with a laugh intended to be conciliatory, “but 
I’m determined to be interested in no more chil- 
dren, and if you talk further I’m sure you’ll shake 
my resolution. Tell me, instead, about grown 
people ; you seem to know a great many who are 
more interesting than our humdrum city people.” 

“Just as you say, my dear,” said Mistress Dru- 
silla, after an odd interchange of glances between 
the sisters; “but I think — do have another cup of 
coffee — no? — I think you might be brought to 
change your mind about children, to your own 
great comfort, if you were to get acquainted with 
our little pet.” 

“ That is why I don’t want to extend my circle 
of juvenile acquaintance,” I replied. “Children 
are wearing — even the best of them. They’ve 
worn me out. That is why I’m trying to escape 
them for the present. ” 

“ Maybe you’ll wish you’d changed your mind 
when, one of these days, you have some of your 
own climbing all about you, and you find yourself 
lonesome when they’re not doing it.” 

“ No danger, ” I retorted. “ I’m an old maid, and 
shall always remain one. ” 

“ So I said once, my dear,” said the old woman ; 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


43 


“but I changed my mind and married, and if ever 
angels took human shape it was while my two lit- 
tle girls were alive. They were too angelic — that 
was the trouble. The Lord himself couldn’t get 
along without them, so back they went to heaven. 
Their father followed after ; and I would have 
gone, too, if it hadn’t seemed heartless to leave 
Miss Dorcas all alone.” 

Then Mistress Drusilla began to tremble and 
weep a little in the quiet restrained way which 
appears to be a peculiarity of country-people, and 
Miss Dorcas with similar restraint of manner tried 
to console her sister. The occasion seemed a fit- 
ting one for my escape, though I first expressed 
sympathy with all the tenderness that was in me. 
Nevertheless, as I sauntered toward the little 
pine grove in which my hammock swung I had to 
admit to myself that if my Alice were the Alice 
of my hostesses the fact of our chance acquaint- 
anceship must soon become known in one way or 
other, so it would be advisable for me to be the 
first to mention it. 

I found little Alice awaiting me ; at least, as I 
passed through the pines I saw her figure motion- 
less against the sky. She stood on the brow of the 
slope that fell away from the trees, and was look- 


44 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


ing out to sea. I approached her softly to see 
what it might be that was attracting her attention, 
but there was nothing unusual in sight. The 
beach, nearly a mile away, was bare, and the only 
vessels visible were too far away to hold one’s at- 
tention. Yet she remained motionless, even when 
I was near enough for her to hear my foot-falls. 
Finally I stood beside her, laid a hand on her 
shoulder, and asked : 

“ What are you looking at so earnestly, dear?” 

“Oh, noffin’,” she replied, looking up as care- 
lessly as if we had already met that morning. 

“ I had no idea that ‘noffin” would be so very 
interesting. ” 

“Didn’t you?” she asked, still looking seaward. 
“ Well, just you try it. Look ’way off dat way a 
long time, wivout stoppin’, an’ you’ll fink dat you 
can’t stop if you want to. Now begin. I’ll help 
you.” 

Is anythiirg more uninteresting than a flat limit- 
less expanse of water, with nothing to break the 
distance? I thought not, as I began, half in fun, 
a far-away stare, according to request. Soon, 
however, the view became interesting, then fas- 
cinating, then absorbing. A few minutes later, 
although I became conscious that little Alice had 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


45 


changed her position and was standing in front of 
me and looking up into my face, it required severe 
effort to withdraw my gaze. When finally I suc- 
ceeded, the child clapped her hands, and her eyes 
danced, and her cheeks glowed, and her lips 
parted as roguishly as if she never had been ab- 
sorbed in anything in her life, and she shouted: 

“ I told you so! Didn’t I tell you so? Say! do 
you know you looked ever so much like a pic- 
ture my fahver’s got — a lovely picture of a lady, 
named — dear me! what is dat lady’s name? I 
can always fink of it when I don’t need to. 

Let me see; it’s — it’s — Meddy — Meddy Oh, 

pshaw!” 

I tried to recall some feminine names begin- 
ning with “ Meddy,” but failed. Medusa was the 
only one that seemed to bear a resemblance in 
sound, and I declined positively to admit for an 
instant that I could resemble that fateful creature. 
Could it be that the breeze- shaken crimps of my 
hair — which I am proud to say was dark, heavy, 
and abundant — resembled serpents? But could 
any child imagine a picture of Medusa “ lovely?” 

“ I’m afraid I can’t help you recall the name,” 
said I. “ There are so few names beginning with 
M-e-d.” 


4 6 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


“ Meddy — Meddy — Meddy, ” the child continued 
to whisper ; then suddenly she exclaimed aloud : 

“Oh! — Meddy Tation! — dat’s de name of de 
lady in de picture. An’ you looked just like her. ” 

“That’s a very pretty compliment, dear; but 
‘Meditation’ isn’t a name.” 

“ ’Tis, too,” said the child, with a valiant, defi- 
ant air, as if she felt called upon to fight for some- 
thing; “ it’s the name of my fahver’s picture.” 

“ Ah, yes; I understand; but it isn’t a person’s 
name: it means the state of mind of the lady in 
the picture. Meditation means the act of thinking 
long about something — perhaps something about 
which one is not entirely sure.” 

“Well, well!” drawled little Alice; “dat’s news 
to me. It ’splains somefin’, dough, ’cause once 
I asked fahver whever de lady in de picture was 
not finkin’ very hard about somefin’, an’ he said 
‘yes;’ an’ I asked him what it was, an’ he smoked 
a lot of smoke out of his cigar first, an’ looked at 
de picture a long time, an’ den he said: ‘I ’spect 
she’s finkin’ whever she ought to say “yes” or 
“ no. ’ ” 

Just like a man! All men are alike. Frank 
Wayne was just that way; if he weren’t I might 
have been a happy woman and wife. And here 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


47 


was another man who evidently regarded womanly 
deliberation in thought with the same impatience 
and contempt. Is it inexorable fate that man 
must ever be too dull of comprehension to under- 
stand woman? And must the wretch forever im- 
agine that when woman meditates he is her whole 
object of thought? 

“ You don’t look much like Meddy Tation now,” 
remarked little Alice suddenly, while I was still 
full of indignant musings. “You look more like 
Miss Judiff in de big picture Bible. She’s holdin’ 
up a man’s head dat she cutted off, an’ lookin’ 
like as if she’d like to cut it off again.” 

“Thank you,” said I, hastening to bring my 
features under control. “ What were we talking 
about? Oh! — what did you see, Alice, while you 
looked so long at the ocean?” 

“Oh, noffin’ but water; noffin’ else at all; but 
it didn’t ever stay de same shape and color. Soon 
as I found somefin’ I wanted to keep lookin’ at, it 
went and looked some uvver way, an’ when I 
wanted some of it to stay de uvver way it went 
and done somefin’ else. What did you see, when 
you was lookin’ like my fahver’s picture?” 

“ About the same that you did, dear, though I 
don’t believe I could explain it so well.” 


48 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


“ My fahver comes out to look at de water some- 
times wiff me, when he’s home,” said the child, 
“ and he sees it just de way I do. He says dat’s 
what makes it so interestin’ — ’cause it’s always 
doin’ somefi’n’ new. He says it’s just de same way 
wiff folks: de ones dat’s most changeable gets de 
most ’tention, even if dey’s as weak as water. ” 

“Quite true,” I murmured. Alice’s father 
knew something, it was quite evident, although 
his knowledge lacked comprehension of woman. 
I was willing even to admit that he might have 
acquired his simile of waves and human incon- 
stancy by observation of women — some women. 
Had not the butterfly girls of my acquaintance 
always been surrounded by hosts of admirers, 
while women of great heart and soul were attrac- 
tive only to one another and an occasional widower 
of discernment — and extreme age? 

“Let us leave the waves to themselves, dear,” 
said I, “ and think of something else. What were 
we going to do to-day?” 

“Why, you was goin’ to teach me somefin’ — a 
little somefin’ — but not ’bout dolls: you ’member 
dat part of it? An’ I’ll tell you de first fing you 
can teach me, if you want to, ’cause I want to 
know. You can teach me what your name is; 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


49 


else what’s I to call you, ’xcept ‘Say’? You don’t 
like to be called ‘Say,’ do you?” 

“ I have heard prettier names,” I replied. “ As 
for me — I have it! — you may call me ‘Teacher.’ 
You say you don’t like teachers. Now, I want to 
be so good and pleasant to you that you’ll think 
more pleasantly of all teachers hereafter. Just 
call me ‘Teacher;’ I’ll give you the rest of my 
name afterward.” 

“ Well, if you’s goin’ to make me like ’em, you’s 
got to be awful nice — just awful nice — and you’s 
got to teach me noffin’ ’bout dolls — not one fing; 
’member dat. ” 

“ I shall remember it, dear. Now listen to me. 
Far away from here, in New York, where I live, 
there are thousands upon thousands of little girls 
about as old as you who don’t know anything good 
unless they learn it at school. Their parents are 
very poor, and while the children are at school 
the father is at work somewhere, and the mother 
somewhere else, for money enough to keep the 
roof over their heads and get food for their chil- 
dren to eat. ” 

“ Don’t de children have any gran’mas to do 
anyfin’ for ’em?” 

“H’m — not often, if I remember rightly; and 

4 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


5 ° 

when the fathers and mothers reach home again 
about supper-time they are so tired that they 
haven’t much time or sense to teach their chil- 
dren anything.” 

“ Dey can teach ’em cat’s-cradle, an’ rabbit-on- 
de-wall, an’ who’s got de button, can’t dey?” 

“ I suppose so ; but ” 

“ Den what makes you say dey can’t teach ’em 
noffin’? I fink dat’s a good deal.” 

“ True, but it isn’t enough. They need to know 
how to get along in the world should their parents 
be taken away; for sometimes one of these chil- 
dren loses a father or mother.” 

“ Jus’ like me,” said the child, as cheerfully as 
if the loss of a mother were one of the every-day 
occurrences which one must bear philosophically. 
“ I lost my muvver, you know. ” 

“ To be sure ; but you had a good father left, I 
trust, and you have a grandmother to look after 
you. But some of these little ones’ fathers are 
not good; they are rude, stupid, ignorant fel- 
lows, who think more of themselves than they do 
of their children, and ” 

“ Really?” 

“ Really.” 

“Well, I don’t understan’ dat at all,” said the 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


5 T 


child, going quickly into a brown study — a very 
brown study — out of which she presently emerged 
to remark : “ I s’pose dat’s what my fahver means 

when he says folks in New York ain’t like folks 
anywhere else, ’cause dey don’t seem to have any 
hearts. Don’t you fink dat’s what he means?” 

“ Quite likely. Some of the fathers and mothers 
of children in New York are so bad that they get 
drunk, and spend money for liquor that might buy 

comforts for their children, and ” 

“ I know ’bout dat kind,” the child interrupted. 
“ Dere’s one of ’em lives next house but one to 
us. He’s awful rich, an’ got a great big house 
wiff a lovely garden, an’ his wife’s a real sweet 
lady, but his children don’t ever seem glad when 
dey see deir fahver cornin’ home, ’cause he looks 
an’ acts as if he didn’t know ’em. One of his little 
girls tole me one day she wished de Lord had 
give her my fahver instead of hers. I tole her I 
didn’t, ’cause den de Lord might have give me 
her fahver instead of mine, an’ dat would be 
awful. Den she cried. ” 

“Wasn’t that dreadful? Well, these little chil- 
dren of whom I am telling you haven’t rich 
fathers and handsome houses and pretty gardens. 
Their entire family have only two or three rooms 


5 2 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


to live in, and often the parents lock the doors 
when they leave home, so their few things can’t 
be stolen; so when the children return from 
school they have only the street and gutter to 
play in.” 

“ Bat's lovely, anyhow.” 

“Oh, Alice!” 

“ Yes, ’tis. I just love to go ’long de street an’ 
pick daisies an’ dandelions, an’ see if dere ain’t 
some wild strawberries, or if de green blackberries 
ain’t beginnin’ to turn red or black, an’ if dere 
ain’t a turtle behind a big stone somewhere, or a 
nest of little birdies dat ain’t got all deir f ewers 
yet. Just tell you what, dem children don’t have 
bad times like you fink dey do. An’ if dey don’t 
have no gran’mas, why, den who’s to call ’em in de 
house to take naps, I’d like to know? I fink gran’- 
mas is awful nice, but I don’t like naps one sin- 
gle bit. ” 

“ But, Alice, dear, streets in the city aren’t like 
roads in the country. There are no daisies or 
dandelions or birds’ nests; there are only walls 
and stone pavements, stone sidewalks, dirt, mud, 
and people. There are no pleasant places in 
which to play, nor anything to play with. ” 

“ Why, you just said dere was mud. ” 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


53 


“ But mud isn’t nice to play with.” 

“Oh, yes, it is. I didn’t mean to conterdic’, 
’cause gran’ma says it isn’t polite ; but it is nice to 
play wiff mud — really an’ truly.” 

The horrid child ! How easy it is to be deceived 
by appearances ! There was nothing about Alice 
Hope’s manner that would have led any one to 
imagine her in sympathy with any city people 
in any way. Nevertheless, it would not do to 
again make her suspicious of me, so I hastily 
said: 

“ Mud such as you see — mere wet clay — isn’t at 
all like the dreadful stuff in city gutters, where 
the wretched children of the very poor wade to 
and fro and sail make-believe boats made of — ” 

“Wade? Sailboats?” exclaimed the child, with 
a sigh. “ Oh, just don’t I wish I was one of dose 
dreadful poor children ! See dat big ocean out dere ? 
See what lots and lots of water dere is? Well, you 
can’t go wadin’ in it at all ’xcept once in a very 
long time, when de wind an’ tide is what my 
fahver calls ‘just so. ’ Sure’s you try it any uvver 
time a great big wave comes up an’ knocks you 
down an’ splashes you all over. An’ boats? Why, 
if you try to sail one it just gets rolled over an’ 
over an’ comes right back to where it started from. 


54 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


Dear, dear! don't I just wish I was one of dose poor 
children!” 

“ Well, dear, you wouldn’t if you could see 
them. As I was saying, their parents teach them 
almost nothing; but there are hundreds of big 
schools, where the poor little things are taught a 
great deal, and learn fo become wiser and better 
than their parents.” 

“Den,” remarked Miss Alice, with much posi- 
tiveness, “I’m glad I’m not one of ’em. I don’t 
want to be any smarter an’ better dan my fahver 
and gran’ma. It makes my head just ache some- 
times to fink how smart an’ good dey is, an’ I’s 
sure my head would split right open if I had a 
muvver, too, dat was just as smart an’ good, an’ I 
had to fink ’bout her, too. Of course my muvver 
is, ’cause ev’rybody up in heaven is everyfin’ dey 
ought to be; but you don’t have to fink dat way 
’bout ’em, ’cause you don’t see ’em an’ hear ’em 
so much. ” 

“ So much? You don’t see them and hear them 
at all, dear. ” 

“ Humph!” said the child, contemptuously. “ I 
guess your muvver ain’t dead, is she?” 

“No, dear.” 

“Might know it; else you wouldn’t talk dat 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


55 


way. Why, I can see my muvvei whenever I 
fink ’bout her a little while; I can hear her talk, 
too. She looks just like she always did, an’ talks 
just de same way she did when I was a baby. 
Just holds me ever so tight to '‘her, an’ looks at 
me ever so long, wiff de cunnin’est kind of a little 
laugh in her face, an’ says, ‘Muvver’s little darlin’ ! 
Muvver’s little darlin’!’ an’ it’s just lovely.” 

“So I should imagine, dear,” said I, gently, 
putting my arm around the child ; “ but you know 
you don’t really see and hear her; you only imag- 
ine it.” 

“ Don’t you say dat again !” exclaimed the child, 
twitching away from my embrace and climbing 
from the hammock to the ground, where she stood 
and looked at me defiantly. “ Guess I know more 
’bout my muvver dan you does.” 

“Certainly you do, dear,” said I, quickly. 

“You never saw her, an’ I did. I know all 
’bout her.” 

“ I should think you would, and I am ever so 
glad that you do. It ought to make you very 
happy, too; but I merely want to teach you to 
understand it rightly, so that you won’t ever be 
disappointed.” 

I supposed this would appease her and restore 


5 6 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


confidence; but it didn’t. She continued to stand 
aloof and look at me angrily, as if I had done her 
serious injury. Finally she said: 

“Just what I was ’fraid ’bout. You’s gone an’ 
wanted to teach me somefin’ I didn’t want to know, 
an’ made me unhappy. Is dat de kind of fings 
you teach de children in your school ?” 

“No, dear; I teach them about the world, and 
the stars, and the ocean, and about the people who 
live in other countries ” 

“ In de moon, an’ all dem places?” 

“No, dear; there are no people in the moon, 
that we know of.” 

“But we can make b’lieve, can’t we? ’Cause 
it’s so much nicer to fink when you look up at a 
big round moon — not one of dem little ones dat 
look like a piece of watermelon wifi: all de red 
part cut out — it’s so much nicer when you look up 
at de moon to fink dat dere’s people in it lookin’ 
down an’ seein’ de world goin’ sailin’ along in de 
sky, just like anuvver moon. You know de moon’s 
noffin’ but a star — don’t you? — only it’s nearer, so 
it looks bigger, an’ de world’s noffin’ but anuvver 
star — don’t you?” 

“Yes,” said I; “but when and where did you 
study astronomy?” 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


57 


‘‘Gracious! what a big word!” exclaimed the 
child. “ I didn’t ever study any fin’ as big as dat, 
I’m sure.” 

“Astronomy is the study of the stars,” said I. 
“ Where did you ” 

“Oh, is dat all it means? Oh, yes, ’stron’my. 
Well, I’s been learnin’ ’bout ’em ever since I was 
a dear, tiny little fing, not much bigger dan one 
of my dolls, I guess. My fahver told me ’bout 
’em, an’ gran’ma tole me some more. Say! do 
you know where de big dipper is?” 

“ No, dear. Are you thirsty?” 

The child broke into a merry peal of laughter, 
and looked quizzically at me. “Of course not,” 
she replied, and then, after another laugh, said: 
“ If I was firsty, I wouldn’t try to drink out of dat. 
It’s too big, an’ it’s millions an’ millions of miles 
away from here. Besides, most of de time it’s 
turned up endways, or upside down, or somefin’, 
so it would spill all de water out anyway. I 
mean de big dipper up in de sky — de seven big 
stars dat’s on de backwards end of de big bear dat’ s 
goin’ roun’ an’ roun’ de norf star all de time, like 
as if it wanted to bite it an’ was ’fraid to.” 

Slowly I realized that the child was alluding to 
the constellation of the Great Bear, and that I had 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


58 

heard sometime, somewhere, that a portion of it 
was vulgarly called “ the Dipper. ” I had seldom 
seen any stars but those which were directly over- 
head. Houses in our portion of the city were too. 
high to permit an extended view of the sky, and 
the air, at the level of the sidewalk, was at night 
so full of artificial light as to make any view of 
the heavenly bodies unsatisfactory. 

“Now I understand you,” I said. “Do you 
know any of the other stars?” 

“ Lots of ’em — lots and piles. I know Jupiter, 
an’ Mars, an’ Venus, an’ Satin ” 

“Saturn, dear,” said I, pronouncing the name 
of the ringed planet with distinctness. 

“Say!” exclaimed the child, as if she were 
about to impart something in extreme confidence, 
“ if you teach me to say it dat way my fahver won’t 
let you play wifi: me any more. One of our visit- 
ors once tried to teach me to say Satur-rn, as you 
call it, an’ my fahver said if he didn’t stop he 
wouldn’t give him noffin’ but bad cigars to smoke 
for a week. ” 

“Very well,” said I, with a sigh. “I’ll try to 
avoid such dreadful punishment. Do you know 
any other stars?” 

“ Goodness, yes. Dere’s de man wiff a sword — 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


59 


dat man wiff de Irish name, dat I always keep 
forgettin’ — O’ somefin’.” 

“Orion?” 

“Dat’s it! Den dere’s de Greek woman’s 
chair ” 

“ The chair of Andromeda?” 

“Yes. Why, you do know somefin’ ’bout de 
stars, don’t you? But I don’t see why you didn’t 
know ’bout be big dipper, when it’s de biggest 
bunch of stars in de sky. Let’s see: den dere’s 
de seven stars, an’ de five stars.*’ 

“ What are they?” 

“ Why, stars, of course — seven of ’em in one 
place an’ five in anuvver. Don’t you know ’em?” 

“I fear I don’t.” 

“Dat’s too bad! ’cause dey’s awful cunnin’ 
little bunches. Tell you what : you come over to 
our house to-night, an’ I’ll show ’em to you.” 

“I don’t like to be out in the night air, dear,” 
said I. Fondness for this child was not going to 
draw me into country manners, the accepting of 
formal invitations, and the acquiring of a lot of 
country acquaintances. 

“ Night air in de country is better dan day air 
in de city — dat’s what my fahver says. But I 
guess I can show you how dey look. ” The child 


6o 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


went out from the shade of the pines, stooped to 
the ground a moment or two x and returned with 
both her chubby hands full of small stones. 
Then she stooped again and carefully arranged 
the stones on the ground, five in the form of a V 
lying on its side, and seven in about the lines of 
a hand-basin. Then she arose, contemplated her 
work, and explained: 

“ Dere’s de five stars, an’ dere’s de seven stars, 
just de way dey look in de sky. ” 

“Ah, I see; the Hyades and the Pleiades. ” 

“ De wha-a-at?” 

“ The Hyades and the Pleiades ; those are the 
names of the constellations you have pictured, 
and very correctly, too. If you call them by their 
right names, no one who has studied astronomy 
can ever misunderstand you when you speak of 
them.” 

The child looked thoughtful, so I hoped the 
spirit of my injunction was taking effect. But it 
wasn’t; for presently she remarked: 

“Well, I know a little ’bout Pleiades, but if I 
was to talk ’bout dose stars, an’ give ’em such 
awful Dutchy names, nobody dat I know would 
know what I was talkin’ ’bout.” 

“Why do you think the names Dutchy, dear?” 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


6 1 


M ’Cause dey don’t remind you of anyfin’ you 
know; dat’s de was Dutchman’s talk is. Dere’s 
lots of Dutchmen ’bout here. But anybody’s smart 
enough to know what seven stars and five stars 
means.” 

I hastily abandoned an intention to explain to 
the child the value of the Greek language as an 
international basis of scientific nomenclature, for 
I feared my command of English would not be 
sufficient. I merely told her that stars and many 
other natural objects had names in Greek or 
Latin, because the meanings of words in these 
languages were known among educated people of 
all countries. 

“Oh, yes, I know ’bout dat,” the child replied. 
“ ’Cause I learned a lot of ’em last winter. Dere 
was a big girl — one of de neighbors’ children — 
dat wanted to teach school roun’ here, an’ gran’ma 
let me go a little while. What words do you fink 
she taught me? — all ’bout fings dat was in me? 
Why, ‘trachea,’ an’ ‘sophagus, ’ an’ ‘biceps,’ an’ 
‘triceps,’ an’ ‘phalanges,’ an’ ‘medulla oblongata,’ 
an’ ‘ab-afr-men!’ I asked my fahver if it wasn’t 
dreadful for a little girl to have all dem fings in 
side of her, an’ he made a face as if he was takin’ 
medicine, an’ said he’d rawer I’d have de measles. 


62 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


I didn’t go to dat school no more. So you’d bet- 
ter be careful ’bout teachin’ me big words, if you 
want to go on teachin’ me anyfin’.” 

I resolved to take this hint to heart. At the 
same time I began to wonder whether there was 
anything that I really could teach this child, who 
had taken possession of my pity because of her 
ignorance, yet who seemed to know more than 
any child in my classes or in my circle of acquaint- 
ances. Still, was it any more sensible that she 
should have been taught astronomy instead of 
physiology? 

“ How did you come to learn so much about the 
stars, dear?” I asked. “ Most girls are two or 
three times as old as you before they are taught 
anything about astronomy. ” 

“Can’t help learnin’ ’bout ’em,” she replied. 
“ Dey’re always where dey’re lookin’ right at me, 
after dark; dey keeps winkin’ at me froo my 
window almost every night till I go to sleep; 
an’, besides, we don’t see noffin’ else from our 
piazza, dese warm nights, ’xcept de stars an’ 
de ocean, so I can’t help finkin’ ’bout ’em an’ 
askin’ questions ’bout ’em. My fahver says if a 
person don’t want to grow up wivout knowin’ 
noffin’ dey’d better ask questions ’bout what dey 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


63 


see oftenest an fink ’bout most. So when I sits 
on de piazza nights, in papa’s lap — when he’s 
home — I ask him lots of fings ’bout de stars, an’ 
he tells me ’em, an’ when he ain’t home gran’ma 
tells me ’em. She’s got a great big map of de 
sky, wiff de names of all de stars — bunches an’ 
big stars. Sometimes, rainy days I plays stars 
on de floor. I’s got lots of little white stones for 
stars, but de Milky Way bovvered me awful, ’cause 
its stars are so little an’ close togevver, you know. 
So one day I got some flour out of de kitchen, an’ 
den I got it all right. It looked just like de sky, 
’cause de rug was blue. Gran’ma got real cross 
’bout it when she came to clean de room, ’cause 
de flour wouldn’t come out of de rug; but when 
she told my fahver he only laughed. Den he got 
a piece of chalk an’ let me make de big stars wiff 
dat instead of stones, an’ den — what do you fink? 
Why, he bought a new rug, an’ hung de old one, 
wiff all de stars on it, on de wall of his room, an’ 
he shows it to all his friends dat comes to see him. ” 
I turned my face so as to laugh unseen. This 
child’s father was evidently a ridiculous fellow, 
in spite of the occasional shrewd remarks which 
his daughter had repeated; but the incident of the 
rug certainly was funny. I found myself sympa- 


6 4 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


thizing with the grandmother, too, horrid old wom- 
an though I believed her, for what woman can 
contemplate unmoved the ruin of a rug? Never- 
theless, had the rug been my own, and a child — 
this particular child — had laboriously mapped the 
heavens upon it, with so faithful a sense of pro- 
portion regarding the Milky Way, I was not cer- 
tain that I would not have decorated my own wall 
with it. 

But, after all, what was the incident but another 
illustration of imagination running riot? Of what 
possible use was her knowledge of the stars? Par- 
allax, ascension, declination, occultation, all the 
laws that governed the movements of the heav- 
enly bodies, that raised mere star-gazing to the 
rank of a science, had undoubtedly been neglected 
by the father m his pretended teaching; the mere 
words probably made their meanings distasteful 
to the literal-minded fellow. I could at least put 
a thought or two into the bright little head, as 
seed into good ground, to help the child toward 
more lasting comprehension of the system and 
law that governed the movements of the heavenly 
bodies; so I said: 

“ Well, dear, have you learned or thought any- 
thing about the stars except what you have told 




WELL OUT OF IT. 


65 


me? The stars are very pretty to look at and to 
give you a new way of amusing yourself ; but they 
weren t put there for that purpose alone. They 
must be of some use, in some way beside merely 
amusing people: don’t you think so?” 

“Yes, indeed I do,” she replied, with great ear- 
nestness. “ My fahver tole me all ’bout it one 
time, an’ I haven’t ever forgot it, eiver.” 

So the father didn’t make a mere plaything of 
his child, after all ! I was glad of it. I was be- 
coming painfully solicitous about the future wel- 
fare of this child. I had so long carried in my 
heart a sense of responsibility for the wretched 
children in my school — sheep with no shepherd but 
me — that I could not feel otherwise regarding 
any child with whom I came in contact. But how 
had her father brought practical astronomy within 
the comprehension of so small a head? I asked 
her to tell me all about it, as her father had ex- 
plained it to her. 

** Well, ” said she, “ once dere lived ’way ’cross de 
ocean a farmer named Job, an’ he was de richest 
farmer in all de country round. It never troubled 
him if the butcher’s wagon didn’t come round in 
time, ’cause he had just fousands of sheep, an’ 
would go out an’ kill one in time to have meat 
5 


66 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


for dinner; an’ gran’ma says when folks was 
offered spring lamb at his house dey got spring 
lamb. He had five hundred pairs of oxen — jus’ 
fink of it! enough to plough all de farms as far 
as you can look from our biggest hill, gran’ma 
says. He had such lots of camels dat if dey was 
all in a menagerie no little girl would have to be 
lifted up to see one; dere were such lots of ’em 
dat each little girl could have a whole one for 
herself to look at, all by herself, an’ nobody to 
stand in front of her. An’ donkeys — why, if a 
whole Sunday-school picnic had gone to his farm 
each boy and girl could have had a donkey to 
ride all day, instead of takin’ turns of just a min- 
ute or two, like dey had to at our last picnic. 

“ But he deserved such lots of fings, ’cause he 
was a real good man. Why, when his children 
done any fin’ wrong he tried to be punished for it 
himself, ’stead of makin’ dem have bad times; 
dough I ’spec’ it hurt ’em just as bad, and maybe 
a little worse. 

“ Well, one day de Ole Bad Man come along, 
an’ tole de Lord he didn’t fink ’twas hard for Job 
to be good, ’cause he didn’t have no trouble to 
make him want to be bad. An’ de Lord tole de 
Ole Bad Man to give Job some trouble, an’ he’d 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


67 


see dat it didn’t make no difference. So one day 
de Old Bad Man sent some fighters to kill Job’s 
farm-hands, an’ some fieves to steal de oxen an’ 
donkeys, an’ some lightnin’ to kill de sheep, an’ 
some more fieves to steal de camels, an’ den he 
sent a big storm dat knocked down a house where 
all Job’s children was eatin’ dinner, an’ it killed 
all de boys — didn’t kill de little girls, dough; my 
fahver says dat would have been too much. 

“ Well, Job was real good ’bout it. He said de 
Lord gave him everyfin’ he had, an’ if He wanted 
to take it all away again, why, who could prevent 
Him? So de Ole Bad Man felt pretty sheepish; 
an’ he said dat if he could only hurt Job himself, 
den fings would be diff’rent. Den de Lord said, 
‘Well, go hurt him, just so you don’t kill him ; den 
you’ll see you don’t know as much as you fink you 
do. ’ So de Ole Bad Man give Job boils — did you 
ever have boils?” 

“ No, ” said I, with some asperity. 

“ Neiver did I ; but gran’ma says dey’s dreadful 
sores dat itches like de heat-rash — didn’t you ever 
have heat-rash?” 

“ I Go on, dear. ” 

“Well, dey hurt him so — just like a whole lot 
of big skeeter-bites, all at a time— dat he couldn’t 


68 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


scratch himself fast enough wiff his hands, so he 
done it wiff a piece of broken dish. But he 
didn’t get bad, dough his own wife told him to 
call de Lord bad names an’ die. Gran’ma says 
she guesses de ole lady got tired of havin’ a hus- 
band roun’ dat was sick an’ poor too. Job behaved 
himself real well till free friends of his came 
a-visitin’ ; dey talked to him for a whole lot of days 
togevver, an’ tole him what he ought to do, an’ 
oughtn’t to do, an’ what dey would do if dey was 
him. Den he lost his patience, an’ began to say 
lots of cross fings, an’ talk as if de Lord didn’t 
have anyfin’ to do but look after him, an’ how if 
he’d made de world he’d have had fings diff’rent 
in a good many ways. My fahver says a man 
never knows ev’ryfin’ so much as when fings ain’t 
goin’ to suit him.” 

“All this is very interesting, dear, though I 
think I’ve heard something of the kind before. 
But what has it to do with the stars? I don’t 
want to lose the story ; but try and remember that 
you were going to tell me how you had learned 
all about the stars.” 

“I haven’t forgot: I’ll reach dem stars pretty 
soon. Well, one day while Job was a-grumblin’ 
away, de Lord came along in a whirlwind. My 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


69 


fahver says de Lord really was wiff Job all de 
time, but when folks gets into trouble dey fink 
dere’s nobody near ’em but de Old Bad Man, so 
it takes a storm, or a club, or somefin’ awful big 
and strong, to bring ’em to deir senses. Den de 
Lord give Job a good talkin’-to. He just let him 
know dat Job nor no uvver man knew just how 
everyfin’ in de world ought to be, an’ no man 
could be as smart as de Lord. He tole him just 
lots of fings where Job wasn’t as smart and strong 
as de Lord, an’ one of de fings he said was, ‘Canst 
dou bind de sweet’ — say! what’s dat name you 
calls de seven stars?” 

“ Pleiades?” 

“ Oh, yes; my fahver gave me a new doll if I’d 
learn dat verse to ’member it always; but I al- 
ways forgets dat word. ‘Canst dou bind de 
sweet influences of de Pleiades, or loose de bands 
of Orion?’ Just fink how little dat must have 
made Job feel, an’ how strong it made him fink 
de Lord! He couldn’t help finkin’ ’bout it, you 
know, ’cause stars was all Job had ever had to 
look at in de night-time. My fahver says what 
de Lord told Job in dat verse was de first lesson 
in de world in practical ’stron’my — ’stron’my is 
all ’bout de stars, you know — an ? he says I must 


70 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


’member it all my life, so if ever I get to havin’ 
bad times an’ fink de Lord isn’t strong enough to 
make fings right, I can just go out an’ look at de 
stars awhile an’ get my mind right again.” 

A thunder-storm put an end to our interview, 
soon after little Alice ended her story, and I was 
not entirely sorry, for I became so absorbed in my 
own thoughts that I could not be good company for 
my little visitor. When at night the clouds dis- 
appeared, I sat in my window for hours, looking 
into the sky, and looking backward into my own 
life. For my one great sorrow I was conscious I 
had blamed Heaven quite as much as Frank 
Wayne; but could I “bind the sweet influences of 
the Pleiades, or loose the bands of Orion ”? 

How glad I was, when I retired, that no one 
could see my face as I suddenly realized how I 
had with much condescension begun the day in an 
attempt to teach the child, and how the teacher 
herself had been taught ! 


THIRD DAY. 


WET-WEATHER WISDOM. 

The third day of my visit to the country was 
such as people starting for a vacation seldom count 
upon. There was rain: not a mere shower, to 
make earth and sky brighter ; but an alternation of 
mist and rain, rain and mist, that compelled me 
to remain indoors. Even a walk on the broad 
piazza was uncomfortable, so penetrating was the 
dampness. I tried to ignore the weather and lose 
msyelf in a book, but the weather declined to be 
ignored ; it made its depressing influence known, 
in ways which weather well understands, and I 
finally found myself compelled to stop reading 
and study the pictures on the wall of the parlor. 
They were about as dreadful as the day: so the 
weather, my surroundings, and my spirits were 
soon in close accord. 

My hostesses were quite sorry for me. Besides, 
they had in other years lost summer boarders 
through bad weather, and as I was their only 
71 


72 


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guest thus far, of the season, they desired to re- 
tain me. One or the other contrived to be with 
me and endeavored to entertain me. Mistress 
Drusilla showed me all the family pictures, about 
half of them being faded photographs, and the re- 
mainder daguerrotypes taken in the good old times 
when a sitter was expected to maintain an un- 
changed countenance for a quarter of an hour. 
Then Miss Dorcas brought down the “ samplers ” 
which had been worked by several generations of 
her feminine ancestors. Some were alphabets 
worked in stitches that made the letters resemble 
tea-chest characters ; others gave visible form to 
passages of Scripture ; while one, which Miss Dor- 
cas regarded as a masterpiece, was a genealogical 
tree of which each branch had its own distinctive 
color — and all the colors had faded. 

Then each sister told me stories about some of 
the neighbors’ families, to the third and fourth 
generations; but they had told similar stories dur- 
ing several hours of each of the preceding days, 
and there are limits even to country gossip. Fi- 
nally the old women seemed to feel doleful them- 
selves, and Mistress Drusilla said: 

“ If it weren’t for fear of disturbing you, my 
dear, we should borrow little Alice, our special 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


73 


pet, for an hour or two, on days like this. She 
always wakes us up when things are forlorn like. ” 
“Don’t let yourselves suffer on my account, I 
beg,” said I, languidly. “Little Alice, you said: 
I wonder if that is the child who has strayed up 
once or twice to the pines where I had my ham- 
mock?” 

“The very same,” said Miss Dorcas, eagerly. 
“ I am sure it must be, for yesterday I saw the 
flutter of her dress through the trees, I’m sure.” 

“ A child who owns a number of dolls with ex- 
traordinary names?” I continued. 

“That’s our Alice!” exclaimed Mistress Dru- 
silla. “ I hope she didn’t trouble you much? We 
haven’t let her come to the house since you’ve 
been here, for fear of worrying you; but, my 
dear, we can’t watch her closely enough to keep 
her entirely off the grounds. ” 

“She’s not at all offensive,” said I. “Indeed, 
she is quite amusing in some ways. I’m not a 
child-hater, I beg you to understand : I’m merely 
endeavoring, for the present, to be spared the 
wearing influence of children. ” 

“ Then you wouldn’t be annoyed if we were to 
have her here a little while this morning?” asked 
Miss Dorcas. “We were planning to take turns 


74 


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in going over to see her and her grandmother this 
morning, but the air is so savage to old bones. 
And we could get the grocer, when he comes, to 
bring Alice over in his wagon. We’ll keep her in 
the kitchen with us; and she isn’t a noisy child, 
so she wouldn’t disturb you if you were in the 
parlor here or your room.” 

“ Have her wherever you like, or wherever she 
likes most to be,” said I. “ I assure you she won’t 
trouble me in the least. I am quite willing to 
take an interest in this particular child, just to 
prove to you that I’m not a follower of wicked old 
King Herod. But no other children, please, nor 
any more of Alice’s family, for me.” 

“You are very good, my dear,” said Mistress 
Drusilla, looking positively radiant. “ Miss Dor- 
cas, you keep a sharp watch for the grocer, won’t 
you, while I write the child’s grandma a note.” 

“I’ll be sure to catch him,” said Miss Dorcas, 
who in an instant was in the hall, and arraying 
herself in rubber shoes and waterproof cloak, 
while I felt my cheeks blushing with pride— and 
shame — at my success in securing an enlivening 
influence for the day, and the deceitful spirit I had 
manifested. Miss Dorcas hurried to the road, al- 
most a quarter of a mile from the house, and came 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


75 


back in half an hour, looking like a person who 
had been under Niagara, but saying, with a cheery 
chirp in her voice: 

“ He’ll get her.” 

I wandered to my room, and resumed the oft- 
broken thread of the novel which I had begun to 
read days before. I read long enough to become 
deeply interested, but suddenly I was recalled to 
a sense of things about me by a series of slams of 
the outer door, a succession of audible kisses, and 
then a loud shout — 

“Dere’s dem banisters! Dey must have been 
awful lonesome for free or four days wiff nobody 
to slide down ’em. Now for it! Hooray!” 

I dropped my book, went to the door, stopped, 
recovered myself, and returned to my book. It 
never would do to have those old women see me 
greet the child effusively, as I was inclined to do. 
Within an hour, in spite of the rain, they would 
have told all their neighbors, with “ corroborative 
detail, intended to give artistic verisimilitude to 
a bald and unconvincing narrative,” as the Mi- 
kado says in Gilbert’s Japanese play, of how their 
child-hating boarder had changed her nature 
within three days. When, finally, I appeared at 
the head of the stairs, I was as dignified and non- 


7<5 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


committal as if I were at the desk of my school- 
room in the city. 

“Hello!” shouted little Alice, as she almost 
made my heart stop beating by the speed with 
which she slid down the stair-rail, while Mistress 
Drusilla and her sister looked on admiringly from 
below. “Just ain’t dis fun! Goodness! Gra- 
cious!” 

“Alice, dear,” I whispered, as she hurried up 
the stairs and again bestrode the rail, “ do be care- 
ful. I’m afraid you’ll lose your hold and fall — • 
perhaps kill yourself. ” 

“Nonsense!” she shouted. ‘‘I ain’t de kind dat 
kills as easy as dat. Here I go! — one — two — 
free!” And before I could remonstrate further 
she was again on the floor at the foot of the stairs, 
and the two old women were all smiles, as if the 
child were their own and her rude exploit were 
a lesson well learned. 

“Bet you can’t do it,” said the child, as she 
again hurried to the head of the stairs. “ Don’t 
you ever teach your school-children dat? Dey’d 
like you ever so much if you would. ” 

I did not doubt it, though I did not say so. 
The child continued: 

“ Best way to teach ’em is to learn how yourse’f. 


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77 


My fahver says dat’s de only way to teach any- 
body anyfin’. ” 

“Do be careful, child,” said I, ignoring per- 
sonal allusions, and slipping behind her, for she 
was again astride the rail. “ Hold tighter, if you 
want to be safe. ” 

“ How does you know about it if you hasn’t done 
it?” said she, looking around at me sharply. “ Has 
you ever slid down banisters?” 

“ Never — never in my life.” 

“ Well, dese is splendid ones to learn on. Dere 
ain’t no turns in ’em, an’ dere ain’t no big roun’ 
knob at de bottom, eiver. Just let me teach you. 
You frow one foot over — so — ” here she actually 
lifted my left foot across that rail, which caused 
me instinctively to fall forward and clutch tightly 
with both hands, to save myself from falling. 

“Don’t hold so tight,” said she, “or you can’t 
slide. Put your hands dis way — see?” Then she 
tugged at my hands with her own little fingers. 

I still clung to the rail with my hands and en- 
deavored to get off, but the little fingers were 
very strong, the rail was painfully smooth and too 
thick to grasp tightly ; in an instant my grasp re- 
laxed a little, and I slid swiftly downward, my 
feet finally striking the floor with a vigorous 


78 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


thump. I looked around quickly, as women seem 
possessed to do when they have done anything 
ridiculous. I thought I had heard a titter ; but 
there stood the two old women, looking as demure 
as Quakers at meeting on Lord’s day. Not so lit- 
tle Alice: she stood at the head of the stairs, and 
clapped her pudgy hands vigorously, shouted 
“Hooray!” laughed, and finally said: 

“ I knew you could do dat, if you’d only try. 
I’ll just tell my fahver next time when he comes 
home dat I teached de teacher to slide down ban- 
isters just as good as / could.” 

“ If you do, I’ll never speak to you again as long 
as I live,” said I. 

“Don’t do it, pet,” said Mistress Drusilla, 
quickly. “ Be a little lady.” 

“Isn’t it bein’ a lady to tell de solemn trufe?” 
asked the child. 

“Yes, darling,” said Miss Dorcas, hastening to 
caress the child, “but the truth isn’t to be told at 
all times.” 

“De times you can’t tell it,” said the child, 
who seemed half in a revery and half in a 
pout, “ ’pears to me is when you want to do it 
most.” 

“Precisely so,” said I. “The times little girls 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


79 


most want to tell the truth are those in which they 
shouldn’t.’' 

“Let’s do somefin’ else,” suggested Alice, 
emerging from revery and pout. “ ’Tain’t no 
good to go on talkin’ to me ’bout de trufe, when 
I don’t know what in de world you mean. I’ll tell 
you what we can do ; slide down some more, and 
you go first, so I can see if you do it right. ” 

“I decline — emphatically.” 

“ Mercy, what a big word ! Say, Missis Dru- 
silla, what’s you goin’ to have for dinner? I 
smells it a-cookin’, and I’s dreadful hungry.” 

“ We are going to have boiled chicken and 
dumplings, pet, but they won’t be done in a long 
time. It isn’t eleven o’clock yet. It takes a long 
time to cook a dinner, pet. ” 

“Well, I’s firsty, anyway. Drinkin’ -water 
don’t have to be cooked.” 

A glass of water was brought, and the child 
drank like a heated horse. I would have been 
frightened, had I not remembered similar per- 
formances of children in my class-room in the city, 
and if Miss Dorcas had not whispered to me: 

“She’s everlastingly being taken that way, 
dear. ” 

Then little Alice resumed her sliding, but soon 


Bo 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


she tired of it, and longed for something new. 
I was heartily sorry for her, for I knew well the 
discomforts of imprisonment by shower, so I said: 

“ Isn’t it too bad, dear, that it rained so hard?” 

The child turned to me with a reproving look, 
and replied: 

“ Course it ain’t. If ’twas too bad, honest and 
true, de Lord wouldn’t let it rain: don’t you know 
dat yet? Don’t you know dat verse in de Bible — 
‘I will give you de rain of your land in his due 
season’? dat means He sends it just when it ought 
to come. If it don’t come ’xcept when de Lord 
sends it — an’ I’d like to know how it can come 
any uvver way — den what makes it too bad? I 
guess you ain’t been teached very good ’bout some 
of dem fings, else you wouldn’t say noffin’ like 
dat.” 

“ I suppose you are right, dear; it isn’t too bad 
that the rain has fallen ; but I wish for your sake 
that there was something pleasant for you to do.” 

“ Does you? Well, den you fink up somefin’ r 
dat’s de way my fahver does, an’ he keeps on 
finkin’ till he finds it.” 

“H’m!” said I, as I began to cudgel my wits 
for some way of amusing the child. 

“ Anyfin’ dat does for de children in your school 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


81 


’ll do for me, I guess. I ain’t very hard to suit,” 
said Alice, by way of encouragement. 

“I’m afraid that wouldn’t suit you, for I don’t 
have any amusements in my school : the children 
come there only to study.” 

“What! All dem poor children you tole me 
’bout?” 

“ Yes.” 

“An’ you’s so sorry for ’em, an’ yet you don’t do 
noffin’ to ’muse ’em? Well, if I ever!” 

Mistress Drusilla and Miss Dorcas joined the 
child in looking inquiringly at me at which I felt 
indignant. Was it not enough that I gave six or 
seven hours a day to my juvenile charges, wearing 
myself out for them, that I should be held to 
account for not doing more? Beside, even if I 
were inclined to devise amusements for them, 
there was no time allotted to such diversions by 
the officials who prepared the routine of study. 

“I couldn’t amuse my pupils if I would,” said 
I. “ I merely do as I am ordered by the school 
board, who don’t provide amusements.” 

“ How different from the days when we were 
young!” said Miss Dorcas to Mistress Drusilla. 
“ Don’t you remember how the teacher used to 

come out in the yard at recess and play tag with 

6 


82 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


us, and hopscotch, and how when it rained she 
would get up a game of “ Button, button,” in the 
school-room?” 

“Indeed, yes,” responded Mistress Drusilla; 
“ and how when the teacher was a young man he 
played marbles and leap-frog with the boys. ” 

“Well,” said little Alice, “we’s wastin’ lots of 
time, an’ not doin’ noffin’. Lets play grasshop- 
per. I’ll show you how, if you don’t know.” 

A single illustration, given with great vigor, 
caused all the adults to decline. 

“Then let’s play cookin’ -school. You an’ Missis 
Drusilla an’ Miss Dorcas make cakes an’ pies an’ 
fings, an’ I help you eat ’em. You needn’t be ’fraid 
of makin’ too many.” 

“Pet,” said Mistress Drusilla, “the stove is 
pretty well covered with things being fixed for 
dinner, so we can’t play cooking-school very well. 
Suppose we tell stories until we can think of some- 
thing better. I don’t believe Miss Brown has ever 
heard the story of ” 

“Miss Brown!” exclaimed the child, looking at 
me gravely. “ I wish you had a nicer name.” 

“I am satisfied with it,” said I. “I am sorry 
it does not please you, but I assure you I didn’t 
select it for myself. ” 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


83 


“I named one of my dollies Miss Brown one 
time,” said Alice, “an’ my fahver wouldn’t let me 
call her dat. He said ” 

“You shouldn’t interrupt, darling,” said Miss 
Dorcas, gently. “ Mistress Drusilla was saying 
something to you.” 

“ I was only saying,” resumed Mistress Drusilla, 
“that I didn’t believe our friend had ever heard 
your story of the big rain.” 

“I don’t believe I have,” said I, anxious to di- 
vert the conversation from my name, of which I 
always felt I had reason to be proud. I certainly 
did not propose to defend it against any fancies or 
dislikes of this child’s peculiar father. 

“All right: I’ll tell it to her,” said little Alice; 
“ but I fought everybody had heard dat story. 
Well, once dere was an awful big rain-storm. 
Folks knew it was cornin’, ’cause a smart man told 
’em so, but dey didn’t pay no ’tention to him. 
Dere was lots of fings goin’ on dat suited ’em 
well enough, so dey didn’t want to fink ’bout fings 
dat didn’t suit ’em, and, of course, nobody wanted 
any rain. Well, one man dat knew all ’bout it 
began to get ready for it ; he made a great big 
boat for him an’ his family an’ all deir fings, so 
dere would be some place for him to go when it 


8 4 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


got too rainy on shore. 'Twas an awful big boat — 
bigger’n a dozen houses in a row — bigger’n almos’ 
any of dese steamships dat come ’long de ocean 
in front of our house, my fahver says. 

“ He didn’t have a boat just to go in an’ swim 
away from de storm, eiver. He was de kind of r 
man who had finked ’bout somefin’ for children to 
do on rainy days, so he fixed up a whole lot of de 
boat so he could carry some animals too, ’cause 
all children likes animals. Dere was places for 
cows, so de children could have all de milk dey 
wanted to drink, when uvver folkses’ children 
didn’t have any ’cause de rain got so bad dat it 
spoiled de roads an’ washed away de bridges, so 
de milkman didn’t come. An’ dere was places for 
dogs, ’cause my fahver says no man dat’s got a 
heart is goin’ to be happy indoors in a big storm 
if he knows his dog is out in de wet. Dere was 

places for kitties, too Say, has you got a cat? 

I have; I got two of ’em. Just you come over to 
my house, an’ ” 

“Nevermind the kitties now, pet,” suggested 
Mistress Drusilla. “Go on with the story.” 

“Oh! Well, my kitties is nice, anyway. Well, 
de man what finked ’bout de storm fixed places 
for donkeys, too, an’ my fahver says he shouldn’t 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


85 


wonder if dere was a nice long clear place in de 
ark — dat was de name of de boat — where de chil- 
dren could ride de donkeys once in a while durin’ 
de day when dey didn’t know what else to do 
while it was rainin’. But he had lots of uvver an- 
imals, too. Why, do you know, dat man finked 
so much ’bout what his little children would like 
dat he took a whole menagerie in dat boat — ele- 
phants, an’ lions, an’ bears, an’ giraffes, an’ allde 
kinds of animals dat’s in de picture-books. He 
took lots of birds, too; chickens, so de family 
could have plenty of eggs to eat, an’ larks to sing 
so’s to wake de folkses up in de mornin’, an’ spar- 
rows to go chirpin’ roun’, and geese to drop quills 
for de children to make squakers out of, an’ 
monkeys dat would cut up an’ make de children 
laugh. Oh ! I just tell you what, ’twas nicer dan 
any Sunday-school picnic-boat you ever saw in 
your life. He took some uvver fings dat I don’t 
fink was very nice — snakes, an’ skeeters, an’ flies, 
an’ bedbugs ” 

“Pet!” exclaimed Mistress Drusilla, reprov- 
ingly. 

“Darling!” ejaculated Miss Dorcas. 

“Well,” said the child, “ ’twasn’t my fault; I 
didn’t tell him to take ’em. My fahver says he 


86 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


s’poses Mr. Noah had to do it, else his family 
wouldn’t have noffin’ to grumble ’bout, an’ folks 
dat haven’t got noffin ’ else to grumble ’bout goes 
to work to find fault wiff each uvver. So when 
Noah got all de animals aboard, an’ asked all his 
friends if dey didn’t want to go too, an’ dey said 
dey guessed not, it begun to look cloudy ; so he 
ran down to de store to get de last fings dat had 
been forgot, and when he got back he shut de 
door of de ark, an’ de rain began. 

“Gracious! Dat was a rain! My fahver says 
he can’t see why people tell lies ’bout big rain- 
storms, when once dere was a real rain so much 
bigger dan anybody can make believe about. It 
filled up de roads so folks couldn’t change deir 
minds an’ go down to de ark if dey wanted to. 
No matter how tight folks shutted deir doors an’ 
windows, de rain got in de houses, and wouldn’t 
go out again. It kept on goin’ in till fires in de 
stoves was putted out by it, so dey couldn’t cook no 
breakfasts. Den folks had to go upstairs to keep 
from gettin’ deir feet wet ; an’ finely dey had to get 
in de attics an’ on de roofs, an’ den dere wasn’t 
no place else to go, so dey just had to be drowned. 
To fink of all de little boys an’ girls in de world 
bein’ drowned ’xcept just a few dat was on a big 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


87 


boat! I fink ’twas perfec’ly awful ; but my fahver 
says ’twas de best fing dat could have happened 
to ’em, for de world in dem days wasn’t a very 
good place for children to grow up in ; ’most all 
dat men an’ boys did was to fight an’ get killed, 
an’ de women an’ girls had to cry lots ’bout it. 
But all de time of dat big rain dere wasn’t nobody 
drowned on board de ark, an’ dere wasn’t no 
trouble dere, ’xcept p’raps it wasn’t always easy 
to open de windows an’ air de rooms when de rain 
was cornin’ down so hard. But de folks wa 6 all 
right; an* you know why? Cause dey’d finked 
beforehand ’bout what to do if a big rain came.” 

While this recital had been going on, Mistress 
Drusilla and Miss Dorcas nodded and smiled at 
each other as happily as if little Alice had been 
their own. They were erect and grave in an in- 
stant whenever the child’s eyes wandered toward 
either of them, for they seemed possessed of the 
old-fashioned notion that a child, no matter how 
tenderly loved, should never be praised for any of 
its smart deeds or sayings, lest it should become 
vain. Consequently, many were the beaming 
smiles that were ruthlessly ruined during that ten- 
minutes moral discourse on the wather. As soon 
as it ended, however, the old sisters looked at me 


88 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


with the utmost pride and triumph, and seemed 
rather surprised and pained that I did not indulge 
in some startling demonstration of approval. 
Miss Dorcas, as I afterward learned, was really 
pained at my apparent apathy ; but the truth was 
that I was unaccustomed to the moral just drawn 
from the well-known story. As Miss Dorcas turned 
aside and led the child to the door to look at the 
rain, I found Mistress Drusilla regarding me with 
an air of solicitude and perplexity; then she said, 
in a low tone and hurriedly : 

“I hope, my dear, it didn’t seem unorthodox to 
you? Our minister has heard it, and I do assure 
you that he didn’t seem to see any harm in it.” 

As for the little relator, she looked through the 
big hall window as if in search of another moral 
in the rain, still heavily falling ; but presently she 
said, in an absent-minded manner, as if talking to 
herself : 

“ I would like to know why tellin’ stories always 
makes me so dreadful hungry.” 

Then the old women smiled at each other, and 
Mistress Drusilla went to a jar in the dining-room 
and returned with a large piece of cake, and Miss 
Dorcas went to the cellar and got a goblet of milk, 
and the child accepted both with as much affec- 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


89 


tation of surprise as if she were an accomplished 
actress. After the refreshments were disposed of, 
the youngster turned to me and said : 

“ Has you fought of somefin’ yet?” 

“ Thought of something?” 

“Yes; somefin’ to do, you know — somefin’ to do 
indoors; ’cause it’s rainin’ outdoors an’ we can’t 
go ramblin’ around.” 

“ Don’t you do anything but ramble around, 
child, when the weather is pleasant?” 

“No,” said the child, with entire self-satisfac- 
tion. “ My fahver says dat’s de best way for me 
to learn somefin’. I go all ’bout de neighborhood 
an’ see ev’ryfin’ I can, an’ den I go home an’ ask 
gran’ma or my fahver all ’bout ’em; dat takes lots 
of time, you know. Mos’ generally it’s gran’ma 
I have to ask, ’cause my fahver ain’t home ” 

“Isn’t home, you should say, my child,” said 
I. The force of habit is strong, and I had not 
been a teacher, correcting bad grammar for years, 
for nothing. 

“ What did I say?” asked she, her eyes opening 
wonderingly. 

“You said ‘ain’t’,” I replied, “which was very 
awkward. ‘Ain’t’ means ‘am not. ’ You wouldn’t 
say ‘my father am not at home,’ would you?” 


9 ° 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


“ Of course not, ” was the reply, made with a 
most contemptuous look; “’cause why, it would 
sound awful pokey.” 

“I don’t know what ‘pokey’ means,” said I, 
“ but you probably mean you would not say it be- 
cause it would be ungrammatical. Well ” 

“ Ungarmatical!” she interrupted. “I ’mem- 
ber dat big word, ’cause one of our neighbors said 
it a lot of times one day when he was talkin’ to 
my fahver ’bout de mornin’ prayer — you know de 
mornin’ prayer, I hope — de one dat begins ‘Our 
Fahver?’ ” 

“ Certainly.” 

“Well, one of our neighbors made fun of it one 
day, ’cause he said ‘Our Fahver which art in 
heaven’ was ungarmatical, an’ he said he didn’t 
see how folks dat knew any fin’ could say a prayer 
in dat ungarmatical way. My fahver finked a lit- 
tle while, an’ den he frowed away his cigar so 
hard dat it made my kitty jump out of de win- 
dow. Den he said if all folks was so particular, 
he guessed prayin’ wouldn’t ever do ’em any good. 
Isn’t it just awful to fink of folks bein’ so partic- 
ular ’bout little bits of fings? Dear me!” 

The last two words were uttered with so much 
feeling that I began to feel very tmcomfortable ; 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


9 1 


I would have felt worse had not my hostesses al- 
ready busied themselves about something else, 
Miss Dorcas having begun to study the weather, 
and Mistress Drusilla having suddenly discovered 
that an old-fashioned, mirror-fronted cloak-closet 
in the hall required dusting. Nevertheless, I 
ventured upon no more grammatical corrections. 
Had I chosen to, there would not have been op- 
portunity, for the child quickly continued : 

“ Haven’t you fought of somefin’ yet? ’Cause, 
if you haven’t, I have. Let’s play school.” 

At last the good seed I had sown in fear and 
trembling was to bear fruit. 

“ Let’s play school, ” the child continued. “ You 
an’ de two missesses be scholars, an’ I’ll be de 
teacher. ” 

“What’s that, pet?” asked Mistress Drusilla, 
clasping her dust-cloth in both hands, her eyes 
beaming encouragingly through her well-polished 
glasses. 

“ What did you say, dear?” asked Miss Dorcas, 
suddenly turning from the window and ignoring 
meteorological phenomena. 

“ I said, let’s play school, and I’ll be de teacher. 
I’ll fix fings. Just wait a minute.” 

While the two old women smiled at each other 


92 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


in expectant ecstasy, little Alice dragged from 
the dining-room, one after another, three large 
old-fashioned chairs, which she placed in a row 
near the large window in the hall. Then she 
brought out a high chair (which afterward I 
learned had been purchased especially for her ac- 
commodation) and placed it in front of the pupils. 

“Miss Dorcas,” said she, “I don't believe I can 
teach right ’less I have some spectacles. Will you 
please lend me yours?” 

“Gracious, child!” said the old lady, as she re- 
moved her glasses, yet hesitated to relinquish 
them ; “ you won’t be able to see a thing with these 
specs.” 

“Dat don’t matter,” said the child, taking the 
glasses and putting them over her little nose and 
ears; “ gran’ma says de teacher dat sees least gen- 
erally gets along best. Say” — this remark was 
addressed to me — “you always wear spectacles 
when you teach de children, don’t you?” 

My only answer was an indignant look. Frank 
Wayne had often said, five years before, that my 
eyes were the most perfect in the world. I was 
sure they had not changed in any way since that 
time. Then the child climbed into her high chair 
and continued: 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


93 


“I guess we won’t have any roll-call, ’cause I 
know you’s all here. We won’t have any Bible- 
readin’, eiver, ’cause de teacher can’t read; but 
dat don’t make no diff’rence; dat’s what my fah- 
ver says/’ 

So saying, the pretended teacher opened a book 
— it was “ Morning and Night Watches, ” which had 
lain on the window-ledge in the hall — and said : 

“The school will come to ’tention. Class in 
’rifmetic, stand up. ’’ 

The two old women giggled, winked at me, and 
arose. 

“The new girl from New York is in dat class,” 
said the little teacher. “ Why don’t she get up, 
too?” 

All this was very silly, but there was no one to 
see, as Frank Wayne once said when I became in- 
dignant at him for taking the unpardonable liberty 
of kissing me ; so I arose, trying to discourage the 
teacher with a freezing look. 

“Now,” said Miss Alice, “dere ain’t any slate 
or blackboard, so I’ll give you some sums dat you 
can do wivout. If some folks bring a little girl 
some candies on a rainy day, an’ den help her eat 
’em, how many is de little girl goin’ to get for 
herself?” 


/ 


94 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


The only audible answer was a chuckle from 
Mistress Drusilla, who nudged me with her el- 
bow. 

“Never mind,” said the teacher, after looking 
at each of us inquiringly. “You can bring de 
answer in de mornin’. I guess I’ll call de jog- 
grify class. Now; if de world is round, just like 
an orange, how’s we to learn just how it looks 
unless we’s got some oranges here?” 

“ The grocer is going to bring some this after- 
noon, dear, ” said Miss Dorcas. 

“We’ll put off de joggrify till den, I guess,” 
said the teacher, “ an’ call dis de readin’ class. 
De scholar dat’s named Brown will read a story ; 
an’ it mustn’t be a stupid one, neiver.” 

Then Mistress Drusilla nudged me again, and I 
replied, with some effort: 

“ I haven’t any story-book to read from.” 

“ Den make believe you’s got one,” said Alice. 

I tried to recall a story, and failed, as most peo- 
ple do when suddenly called upon. The teacher 
spared me by saying : 

“ Next.” 

Mistress Drusilla did not respond, and I was 
tempted to return one of her familiar nudges, but 
it seemed undignified. 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


95 


“ Next,” repeated the small figure in the high 
chair, throwing back her head and dropping her 
lower jaw like spectacled people in general. Miss 
Dorcas imitated a child’s voice as closely as she 
could, and replied : 

“ If you please, teacher, I haven’t learned my 
lesson. I’m very sorry.” 

“ So am I,” said the little creature, gravely. “ I 

don’t see but I’sgot to read it myself. Well ” 

Here she opened her book and looked into it, 
turned the leaves forward and backward, cleared 
her throat, and finally began : 

“Once dere was a time when dere wasn’t any 
rain in a country dat’s a long way off, an’ ev’ry- 
body in dat country came to have lots of trouble 
to get any fin’ to eat, ’cause noffin’ could grow in 
de gardens an’ on de farms, ’cause dere wasn’t 
any water to make ’em grow. An’ dere was a 
good man named ’Lijah dat didn’t have noffin’ to 
eat ’xcept what birds brought him, an’ I guess de 
birds didn’t have noffin’ to bring him after a 
while, ’cause one day he went to a woman’s house 
an’ begged for somefin’ to eat. De poor woman 
didn’t have noffin’ but a little flour an’ some oil: 
dat’s what dey use over dere instead of butter an’ 
meat. An’ ’Lijah told her dat if she’d make some 


9 6 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


biscuit and give him some she’d always find meal 
in de barrel an’ oil in de jar till de rain came 
again. An’ it turned out just like he told her. 
Dat man ’Lijah was awful smart: he didn’t care 
to do noffin’ but what he fought de Lord wanted 
him to do ; dat’s de reason he was so awful smart, 
my fahver says. 

“Well, dat ’Lijah — he was de same man dat 
made a lot of stones burn up by askin’ de Lord to 
let a lot of fire come down on ’em — de day he got 
dat fire to come down, an’ den made de people take 
all de bad preachers away an’ kill ’em, dat same 
day ’Lijah began to fink ’twas ’bout time for a 
spell of wevver to come, now de country had got 
rid of its bad old preachers. So he told his ser- 
vant to go tell de king dat dere was rain a-comin’. 
Dey was all out in de country, de king bein’ out 
ridin’, an’ de king had begun to believe dat 
’Lijah knew what he was talkin’ ’bout. So he 
got in his chariot — de king was carriage-people, 
you know— and whipped up de horses to hurry 
home. Dere was ’Lijah, dat had been doin’ so 
much good, walkin’ along de awful dusty road; 
but de king didn’t ask him to jump in an’ take a 
ride; he didn’t fink of noffin’ but himself. He 
was sure he was goin’ to get what he wanted, so 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


97 


he didn’t care noffin’ more for de man what had 
done it for him, so he whipped up his horses an’ 
left ’Lijah trottin’ along in de dusty road. De king 
had good horses — kings has de best of ev’ryfin’, 
you know — but first fing he knew, ’Lijah had run 
so fast dat he’d got to town first. De reason was 
dat folks who ain’t got anybody but ’emselves to 
help ’em get out of de rain, or any uvver trouble, 
is pretty sure to have more ‘go’ to ’em dan uvver 
folks, like kings, dat has ev’ryfin’ done for ’em.” 

“What makes you think so, dear? — teacher, I 
mean,” asked Mistress Drusilla. 

“ ’Cause my fahver says so,” replied the child. 

“ I do believe it’s time for the dinner to be 
done: I’m afraid it’s burning,” said Miss Dorcas. 

“School’s out,” said the teacher, moving rap- 
idly toward the dining-room. 

As for me, I was obliged to believe that the lit- 
tle teacher’s father had a faculty for drawing 
practical lessons from everything. 

7 


! 


FOURTH DAY. 


A COUNTERFEIT PRESENTMENT. 

The ice of my reserve having been entirely 
melted by the shower, there was nothing to prevent 
little Alice being made entirely at home at my 
boarding-house the next day, which also was 
rainy. Stie entered with a cheery “ Here we are 
again,” which I was inclined to criticise as un- 
grammatical until Mistress Drusilla told me it was 
a common salutation of the child’s father when he 
reached home Saturday evenings. The uniform 
failure of my criticisms of anything which had 
emanated from “my fahver” had warned me to 
ignore that gentleman’s ways whenever they were 
brought to my notice by his daughter. Beside, 
little Alice’s voice was not the only one which 
broke the stillness of my temporary home. There 
arose to my room, as I prepared to descend, the 
wail of a cat. I knew my hostesses disliked cats ; 
as for me, I hated them. Many a night had I 
been roused from slumber by the cries of pussies 
98 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


99 


in city yards, until I wondered how Noah’s family 
got any sleep at all while cruising about in the ark. 
The cat whose voice mingled with that of little 
Alice seemed to be protesting against something, 
and its notes were high and piercing. 

“You know, pet, we never liked cats,” I heard 
Mistress Drusilla say as I entered the old-fashioned 
sitting-room. 

“Never, darling,” declared Miss Dorcas. 

The child looked hopefully toward me, but in 
return I gazed icily at a small feline head which 
rested on little Alice’s elbow, as I said: 

“I’d about as lieve have a snake in the house as 
a cat. ” 

“Well, I never!” said the child, looking curi- 
ously at me. “ Where did you ever get used to 
snakes so as to like ’em?” 

Mistress Drusilla suddenly hurried to a corner 
window, saying, under her breath, that she be- 
lieved there was a draught coming from that way 
somehow ; Miss Dorcas found a button loose on 
the back of the venerable hair-cloth sofa. But 
the child continued to stare at me, and soon ex- 
claimed: 

“Say — where did you? Dere’s a picture on a 
fence down in de village, ’bout a big girl dat tamed 


IOO 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


snakes an’ is goin’ to play wiff some of ’em in de 
circus dat’s a-comin’ ; but she don’t look like you.” 

“Miaouw!” exclaimed the cat. For the first 
time in my life I felt grateful to a member of the 
feline species. 

“Poor kittie!” said the child. 

“Miaouw!” repeated the animal. 

“ It’s such a poor little fing,” said Alice, sitting 
down and arranging the beast — a half-grown kit- 
ten — on her lap, handling it in sections, as if it 
were a thing of pasteboard and joints, such as I 
had owned when a child. It certainly was “ a 
poor little fing.” It had been thoroughly soaked 
by the rain, and, apparently, rolled in the mud 
afterward. It seemed as thin as a lizard, as ugly 
as one of Dore’s imps, and as frightened as a child 
of the slums brought suddenly into decent sur- 
roundings. When it cried the two old women put 
their fingers to their ears. Finally, Mistress Dru- 
silla, with her ears still closed, said, in a very loud 
voice : 

“ Alice, pet, if you like you may take her to the 
kitchen and put her in the basket where we keep 
new-hatched chickens until they’re a few hours 
old. Then put the basket in front of the stove. ” 

“I don’t fink,” said the child, as she carefully 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


IOI 


smoothed the wretched animal’s ears, “dat you’d 
like it, if you’d got all wet an’ knocked in de mud, 
to be put in a chicken-basket an’ set in front of de 
fire. You’d want somebody to pet you an’ com- 
fort you an’ tell you how sorry dey was, an’ some 
body to listen to you while you told ’em all about 
how it happened. Folks dat’s in trouble likes to 
be coddled; dey don’t like to be stuck off in a 
basket all alone to coddle ’emselves; do dey, 
kittie?” 

“ Miaouw!” responded the waif. 

“ You coddle the kitten, then, pet,” said Mistress 
Drusilla, cautiously removing her fingers from 
her ears ; “ but let her tell you about her troubles 
some other time when she won’t have to feel un- 
pleasant at having so many other people around. 
You wouldn’t like a whole lot of folks listening if 
you were going to tell some of your troubles to a 
friend, would you? Beside, you wouldn’t scream 
out everything you had to say, like that dreadful 
kitten. ” 

“Don’t you fink so? Well, mebbe not; but if 
you lived at our house an’ had to hear de folks 
dat come in to tell deir troubles to gran’ma, you’d 
see — dat’s all.” 

The child began to look meditative. Miss Dor- 


102 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


cas came slowly from the window, stood behind 
me, and whispered : 

“ Now look out for a story. Her grandmother 
is a dear, sympathetic soul, and people cry all 
over her and tell her all sorts of things. It’s none 
of my business; I don’t want to know anything 
about other folks’ affairs (!): goodness knows it 
takes me all my time to look after my own. Still, 
things do get out in the neighborhood once in a 
while that some folks wouldn’t have get out for 
anything, and, come to find out, that child has 
heard them when nobody supposed she was paying 
any attention to what was being said to her 
grandmother. Of course the child doesn’t know 
what it means to be a tale-bearer; she repeats 
other people’s stories just as she does her father’s; 
but they do make the greatest row in the neigh- 
borhood sometimes, because they’re always laid 
to somebody else.” 

Little Alice still remained in a brown study; 
the kitten, cuddled in her lap, and pacified by 
gentle treatment and the warmth of the room, be- 
gan purring softly. Miss Dorcas moved softly to 
the other side of the room, so as to attract the at- 
tention of her sister ; Mistress Drusilla caught her 
eye, and there was an exchange of expectant 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


I03 


glances. The kitten yawned. The child, recalled 
from contemplation, caressed the animal, and 
roused herself. 

“Now,” said Miss Dorcas again, tiptoeing up 
to me and whispering, “ she’s thought it out, and 
she’s been so long about it that I’m sure it’ll be 
specially interesting.” 

“Teacher,” said the child, looking earnestly at 
me, “ I do wish you’d tell me how you learned to 
like snakes as much as kittens. I fink it’s de aw- 
fullest fing I ever heard tell of.” 

The two old women seemed to shrink as they 
sat in their chairs. Although I did not look at 
them, I could not help seeing that Miss Dorcas 
acted exactly like a school-child caught at some 
flagrant offence against school discipline. Mis- 
tress Drusilla arose hastily, and said : 

“I’m sure that poor kitten needs something to 
eat, pet, after its dreadful wetting. I’ll go get 
you some milk for it.” 

“ I’ll do it, Mistress Drusilla, ” said Miss Dorcas. 
Both old people left the room in haste, to my 
great relief, and they were not more than out of 
the door when Miss Dorcas shouted: 

“ Bring her to the kitchen right away, darling.” 

“Come along, Teacher,” said Alice. 


104 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


“No, no; I mean the kitten, child/’ came 
quickly back from the hall. 

Bless the old women for their sympathy ! I be- 
gan to feel that they must have come from very 
good stock. As for little Alice, she started with 
the waif, but stopped in the doorway, and said : 

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do; I’ll let you keep 
Agonies in your room all de time you’s here if 
you’ll tell me how you learned to like nasty old 
snakes as much as — ” 

A thin, withered hand came silently but swiftly 
from beside the door, clutched the child’s arm, 
snatched the questioner away, and, from sounds 
that followed, was apparently applied firmly to a 
small mouth. 

Relieved of my tormentor, my first impulse was 
to go to my room and remain there. The sky 
was gloomy, so to look forward to a whole day of 
reading was not cheering; but anything would 
be preferable to chance questioning, before wit- 
nesses, by an irresponsible being like Miss Alice 
Hope. Yet I had become so fond of the child 
that it seemed to me the day would be darker 
if I were deprived of her companionship. If I 
could get her to my own room and have her to 
myself, I could ignore unpleasant speeches and 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


io 5 

direct conversation to suit myself ; but from what 
I already had learned of other people’s affairs 
through my landladies, I could not doubt that as 
soon as I concluded my brief summer outing all 
that passed between us in conversation would 
become known to everybody who might care to 
listen. I had half a mind to take refuge in water- 
proof cloak, overshoes, and the outer air; but as I 
stood at a window and debated the question with 
myself, the old women and child, without the cat, 
reappeared in the sitting-room, and little Alice 
remarked, solemnly: 

“I’m not goin’ to talk any more about snakes. 
Miss Dorcas an’ Mistress Drusilla says it ain’t 
polite to talk about what other folks don’t like; 
an’ besides, dere’s reasons why dey wants you to 
like me ever so much: so you can go on an’ like 
me just as much as you wants to, dough I don’t 
see what de reasons is dat dey talks about.” 

Then the old women looked guilty again, and 
made excuses for disappearing ; so I was soon left 
alone with little Alice. That young woman didn’t 
seem to realize that she had said anything unusual. 
She took a look at the weather, and for some mo- 
ments did not seem to see anything but threaten- 
ing skies and dishevelled phloxes and petunias; 


io6 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


but suddenly she turned and said, with the air of 
a Pharisee of the Pharisees: 

“Well, I’s been a good Smatteran, anyway.” 

“You’ve — what?” I asked. 

“I’s been a good Smatteran — don’t you know? 
I fought ev’rybody knew all about dat. ” 

“I’m not everybody, dear,” said I. “I wish 
you would tell me what you mean by a ‘good 
Smatteran. ’ ” 

“Dear me! I should fink you’d never been to 
Sunday-school in your life,” said the child, with 
a pitying look. “ Don’t you know de story about 
de man dat had all his fings hooked?” 

“I’ve heard of so many affairs of that kind,” 
said I, “ that I can’t be sure as to which you allude. ” 

“Why, I mean dat man dat went from Jerusa- 
lem, where King David used to live, to a town 
named Jericho. My fahver says dere wasn’t any 
p’licemen in dem days, an’ maybe he went after 
dark, when dere wasn’t any ’lectric lamps or uv- 
ver lights ’long de road to let ’em see what was 
in front of ’em. Anyhow, some bad old fiefs come 
along an’ knocked him down an’ stole his money 
an’ his clothes, an’ left him layin’ in de road about 
half dead; dat’s worse dan bein’ all dead, my 
fahver says. 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


107 


“ Well, along came a preacher, an’ seen dat man 
a-layin’ dere, but he didn’t have noffin’ to do wiff 
him. My fahver says he guesses de preacher 
fought de hooked man was a tramp, an’ preachers 
ain’t got no time to fink about tramps when dey 
knows lots of uvver preachers needs to be set 
right. Beside, who wants to look at a man dat’s 
been in a fight an’ got all mussed up in de dirt? 
Preachers fink dat p’licemen and constables ought 
to take care of such folks. So de preacher went 
across de street, an’ walked along where dere 
wasn’t noffin’ to look at dat would upset de finks 
he was finkin’ about. 

“By-an’-by come along a Levite — dat was de 
kind of man dat knowed all about de law. De 
law was made for sinners, my fahver says, but I 
guess de law-man finked de man lay in’ in de dirt 
wasn’t a sinner, ’cause he went along on de uvver 
side of de street, too. An’ all dis time dat poor 
man dat had his fings hooked was layin’ dere half 
dead, wivout any doctor to make him well, or any 
gran’ma to tell him to come home right away an’ 
put some clean clothes on ’fore somebody would 
come along and fink he didn’t have nobody to take 
care of him. 

“ Den dere come along a Smatteran. Folks 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


I 08 

didn’t fink much of Smatterans in dem days, ’cause 
dey come from a little town in de back country 
where folks didn’t know much, an’ hadn’t read no 
books, nor made no laws, nor preached no ser- 
mons, nor read de newspapers; so dey was just as 
bad as de folks dat lives down on de beach here, 
dat ain’t no good except to work cheap for uvver 
people. Dat Smatteran was ridin’ on a donkey: 
so I s’pose he must have been de donkey-man at 
a Sunday-school picnic. Well, he got off of his 
donkey, an’ he looked at de hooked man, an’ he 
put court-plaster on de places where he’d been 
cut, an’ he doctored him wiff wine an’ oil — vase- 
line, I guess — an’ den he put him on de donkey 
an’ took him along to a hotel, an’ gave de hotel- 
man a penny, an’ told him to take care of de poor 
man till he come along dat way again. Like 
enough de penny de Smatteran gave de hotel-man 
was one de poor good man had been keepin’ to 
buy a stick of candy or a fig or somefin’ to carry 
home to his own little girl, ’cause dat’s what 
fahvers do wiff deir last pennies. So it was all de 
harder for him to pay it to de hotel-man, ’cause 
he wouldn’t like his little girl to be disappointed 
when he got home.” 

“ The penny in the story you are telling,” said I, 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


109 

“ was a great deal more than what we call a penny 
nowadays. It was fully enough to pay for the 
care of a man at a country hotel for a day or 
two.” 

“ Is dat so?” asked the child, with a very sober 
face. “Den I wish you hadn’t told me about it: 
I’s always been sorry for dat Smatteran’s little 
girl.” 

“ But what has all this to do with you, child, 
that you should think yourself like the good Sa- 
maritan?” 

“Well, I declare! You don’t know! Dear me! 
you’s about as slow to understand any fin’ as folks 
was when Jesus used to tell stories. Why, de 
way is, dere was a poor little kittie along de road 
dat had got all rained on an’ muddy, an’ I brought 
it in, an’ nobody wanted to be nice to it a bit. 
Mistress Drusilla an’ Miss Dorcas put deir fingers 
in deir ears when it cried, an’ you said you’d as 
lieve have a snake as a cat. Say — I wish I knew; 
— oh, no! I forgot; I mustn’t say anyfin’ about dat 
again. But I took care of de poor little fing, an’ 
comforted it all I could, when ev’rybody else was 
lettin’ it alone all dey could. Den I gave it a 
whole cupful of milk.” 

“ But ’twas milk that Mistress Drusilla sup- 


no 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


plied,” said I, wishing to have justice done to the 
priest and the Levite. 

‘ But if de kittie hadn’t drinked it I could have 
drinked it myself,” said the child, with a sigh. 
“ It’s just like de Smatteran’s penny: dat’s what 
makes me like de Smatteran. I wish, dough, dat 
I could have felt like you, ’cause I’d have been 
all de gooder if I’d liked snakes as much as — oh, 
pshaw! dere I goes again, after I promised I 
wouldn’t! I do wish I didn’t always have to be 
wonderin’ about fings!” 

“ Come up to my room, dear, and see if we can’t 
find something else to think about. If I can do 
anything to take yotir wondering out of you, I’ll 
take pains to do it.” 

“Oh! will you?” said the child, with a look of 
ecstatic longing. “ Den tell me when you saw de 
snakes dat ” 

I hastily picked up the child, carried her to my 
room, placed her on my bed, kissed her several 
times, and finally said: 

“ Now let us have a good time. I wish you had 
all your dolls here; but, as you haven’t, I’ll do 
anything else that will make you happy.” 

“Will you, really?” she asked. “Den s’pose 
you cut me some paper dolls,” 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


1 1 I 


“ Paper dolls?” 

“Yes — don’t you know? You cut dolls out of 
paper an’ make believe dey’s people.” 

“I don’t believe I’ve ever done that,” said I, 
after rapidly reviewing the amusements of my own 
juvenile days. 

“ Haven’t you? Well, my fahver says it’s never 
too late to learn. If you’ll get some paper an’ 
scissors, I’ll show you de rest.” 

I quickly found the material and tools, and the 
child laboriously carved from a sheet of paper a 
figure which in outline resembled some of the 
dreadful idols I had seen exhibited in church 
missionary-meetings. 

“ Dere,” she exclaimed, as she held the hideous 
thing up in full view, “dat’s a boy doll, if you 
fink so hard enough. ” 

I wondered if any amount of thought which I 
could exert would make the scrap of paper seem 
anything but grotesque. Suddenly, however, I 
remembered that I had brought a box of water- 
colors with me. I shall never forget the exclam- 
ation of delight which escaped the child as I 
floated some carmine wash into the top of the 
“ boy doll.” 

“ Qh-h-h!” Alice murmured, as she looked at 


II 2 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


the bedaubed bit of paper; “ he’s almost like real 
folks, ain’t he? Now let’s make some girl dolls; 
den you can paint all you want to wivout doin’ too 
much.” 

The girl that was evolved from the paper ap- 
peared so quickly that some essentials were notice- 
able principally by their absence. But little Alice 
did not miss them ; she was awaiting the touch of 
the paint-brush ; and as I endeavored to bestow a 
dull-red skirt, a light-green waist, and a citrine 
sash, the child’s breath came quick and fast, and 
she finally exclaimed : 

“How lovely! Don’t de little girls in your 
school like you to paint deir paper dolls?” 

“They don’t have paper dolls, dear; I don’t 
suppose one of them ever thought of a paper 
doll.” 

“ Wha-a-a-a-a-at? Why, de poor little fings! 
Don’t dey ever fink about dolls at all?” 

“ I don’t know, dear. How should I know what 
they think about, or what they like?” 

“Well,” she replied, dropping the scissors and 
paper, “if you don’t know, I’d like to know who 
does? Doesn’t you ever make ’em paper dolls, 
or paint ’em for ’em?” 

“The idea! If any school-teacher were to dq 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


IJ 3 


such things for her pupils the Board of Education 
would think she was good for nothing.” 

“ Den who does make your school-children paper 
dolls? ’Cause I ’member you said most of ’em 
didn’t have f ah vers or muvvers dat could do nice 
fings for ’em.” 

“Nobody, I suppose,” said I, carelessly. 

“ You don’t mean dat dey don’t have any paper 
dolls at all, do you?” asked the child, with won- 
dering eyes. 

“ That is just what I do mean,” I replied; “ and 
you will learn one of these days, my dear, that 
the children you are talking about don’t know the 
difference, and don’t miss paper dolls at all. 
Probably they never saw paper dolls : so how can 
they think about them and want them?” 

“ H’m,” said the child, pressing a partly-painted 
doll to her heart and leaving on the front of her 
white pinafore a red blotch which might be taken 
for a pink jockey-cap or a half -ripened strawberry. 
“ I wonder where you was brought up, to fink 
dat way. Don’t you ever fink about fings you 
never saw, an’ want to have ’em?” 

The child’s question set me to thinking, and I 
am not sure that I made any reply. I went on 
coloring dolls, working very slowly, and indulging 

a 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


114 

in all sorts of vagaries of color, contrast, and com- 
bination. The longer I thought, the more point 
there seemed to the child’s question. Certainly 
I had never wasted much time in wishing for 
pleasures that money could buy ; I had been trained 
to believe that “ a man’s life (or a woman’s) con- 
sisted not in the abundance of the things that he 
(or she) possessed. ” It was a matter of family 
pride that none of my ancestors, on either side, 
had ever taken part in the mad race for wealth and 
luxury. For what had I most longed? I could 
honestly answer : a contented mind and a useful 
life, with the love of those about me. If Frank 
Wayne had only 

“Say — don’t you?” exclaimed the child. The 
question recalled me from my revery. I .did not 
want to make a father confessor of a child, but I 
could not help snatching the little torment into 
my arms and kissing her repeatedly. 

“ I fought you did,” she replied, as she straight- 
ened a paper doll which between us had been 
crushed out of all semblance of shape. “ Well, I 
should fink you might know dat de dreadful poor 
little children in your school felt de same way, an’ 
felt it awful much, if dey’s got such almost noffin’ 
as you say dey has.” 






WELL OUT OF IT. 


I 15 

Evidently this child knew nothing of class dis- 
tinctions and the grovelling tastes of the children 
of the slums. Probably her father was one of the 
ranting, enthusiastic fellows who imagine every 
one to be of like feelings and aspirations with 
themselves. I remembered Frank Wayne once 
speaking of a school-room — just such a one as I 
afterward controlled — that he had accidentally 
visited, and how he believed its walls should be 
covered with pictures and its windows filled with 
flowers. I remembered, too, that when I told him 
the pupils would quickly disfigure the pictures 
and destroy the flowers so as to throw them at one 
another, he retorted that he had seen more flow- 
ers blooming in the windows of one block of tene- 
ment-houses than in all the windows on Fifth 
Avenue. This reply made me indignant. It 
never is pleasant to have one’s cherished theories 
upset by a lot of facts; in such cases one doesn’t 
know what to say. 

“ I guess,” said Alice Hope, with earnest accent 
upon the last word, “I guess dis paper doll ain’t 
good for much ’xcept to start a hospital wiff. 
Don’t matter, dough; guess we couldn’t be happy 
if we didn’t have nobody to be sorry for. I don’t 
want to spoil any more ; but say — if we do, den 


WELL OUT OK IT. 


1 16 

this one will have somebody to keep it com- 
pany.” 

For a few moments the work of shaping and 
decorating semblances of humanity continued. I 
was busy with my thoughts, and the child, I sup- 
posed, was giving her entire mind to scissors and 
paper. When, however, as I finished a doll and a 
day-dream at the same time, and then impatiently 
threw the doll upon the floor, the child stooped 
and picked up the discarded scrap-paper, giving 
me a childish warning at the same time against 
wastefulness. Suddenly, however, she looked at 
the recovered doll intently, burst out laughing, 
and pressed it to her lips. 

“You silly child!” said I, smiling at her. 

“I ain’t silly,” she replied, holding the bit of 
paper at arm’s length, and contemplating it with 
a face full of smiles, “but I never saw anyfin’ so 
funny in all my life! Does you know what? 
You’s gone an’ made dat doll look just like my 
fahver!” Then she kissed the daub again and 
again. 

I rose hastily and took the scrap of paper from 
her hand. As I did so it seemed to me that my 
face was ablaze. I knew that I had sketched on 
it, in neutral tints, my recollection of Frank 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


117 

Wayne: that was the reason I had thrown it away. 
The Hopes and the Waynes were not related, or 
I should have known it during my acquaintance 
with Frank; but there is a facial resemblance, I 
suppose, among men who think alike, and by what 
the child had for several days been saying about 
her father I had frequently been reminded of my 
recreant lover’s mental peculiarities. 

“I didn’t know dat yon knew my fahver,” said 
the child, standing very close to me as I looked 
again at the picture I had thrown away. 

“ I don’t know him. I never saw him in my 
life,” said I. 

“Den of course you doesn’t,” said she, looking * 
depressed ; “ but when I shows him dat paper doll, 
he’ll fink it’s awful funny dat somebody else can 
be just like him.” 

“Will he?” thought I. “Not unless my right 
hand has lost its cunning. ” Then I said to the 
child: “The picture isn’t done, dear, and I threw 
it away rather than waste time on it, but I sup- 
pose I may as well finish it.” Seizing my brush, 

I quickly made the head bald, covered the eyes 
with large spectacles, and slightly lengthened the 
ears. 

“ You’s spoiled my fahver !” exclaimed the child. 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


1 18 

“ ’Twasn’t meant for your father, dear,” said I, 
kindly. Having destroyed the supposed resem- 
blance, I could afford to be consolatory to any ex- 
tent. “ Don’t you see? The man I meant to draw 
was a man who is so smart that he knows every- 
thing, or ” 

“ Den why didn’t you leave it like it was? — 
’cause dat’s just de kind of man my fahver is. 
Can’t you make him back again like he was?” 

“Perhaps so, when it becomes entirely dry,” 
said I, with a mental reservation that by that time 
it should be reduced to indistinguishable frag- 
ments. That it should not again fall into the 
youngster’s hands, I placed it between the leaves 
of a sketch-book which I was using on a table. 
After this the work of making paper dolls contin- 
ued with industry and interest. To divert the 
child’s thoughts from the unfortunate picture 
which resembled her father, I devoted myself to 
brilliant and tasteful coloring, and, remembering 
that I once had taken lessons in figure-drawing, 
I outlined men, women, and children with my pen- 
cil, and the little fingers guided the scissors over 
the lines with more or less success until the din- 
ner-bell rang. 

“Come on,” shouted Miss Alice Hope, as the 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


i*9 

cheering jingle reached our ears. “I’s ’most 
starved.” She slid down the stair-rail, thus gain- 
ing some steps on me, and as I approached the 
dining-room door I heard her exclaim : 

“Say, Mistress Drusilla an’ Miss Dorcas, what 
do you fink? Why, teacher made a paper doll 
look just exactly like my fahver! Did you ever 
hear of such a funny fing as dat?” 

The old women were exchanging odd smiles as I 
entered the room, but the exchanges were broken 
abruptly as I appeared. 

“ Say — did you?” the child repeated. 

“ There’s nothing very strange about it, pet, I’m 
sure,” said Miss Drusilla. 

“Nothing at all, darling,” said Miss Dorcas. 

“ There are so many men in the world who look 
alike, ” said Mistress Drusilla, “ that I sometimes 
wonder how people can tell men apart. ’Twasn’t 
so in my day.” 

“ No, indeed,” said Miss Dorcas. “ In our time, 
when we were young, each man had his own style 
of face and clothes; but now it does seem as if all 
the men that go to the city have their clothes cut 
from the same goods and according to the same 
pattern, and they all wear mustaches turned up at 
the ends in just the same way. Why, goodness 


120 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


me! last time T was down to the railroad ddpot in 
the village, and a lot of the young fellows that 
were summer boarders got off the train, it made 
me think of war times, when nearly everybody 
was in uniforms just exactly alike. For the life of 
me, I couldn’t see how gals could tell whether 
they kissed their own sweethearts or somebody 
else’s.” 

“You could,” said Mistress Drusilla, with a 
far-away look, “ if you’d ever ” 

“ To be sure — of course,” said Miss Dorcas, hast- 
ily rising and helping her sister to potatoes so that 
she might have an excuse to give the old woman 
a sly squeeze. 

“Well,” said Alice Hope, who during these ex- 
planations had been stowing away bread and 
gravy as industriously as if she had no mind for 
anything else. “ I never saw anybody else dat 
looked like my fahver ; an’ if dere is a lot of uvver 
men dat looks dat way I fink dis world is good 
deal nicer place dan I ever heard it was before. ” 

“How is the kitten, little Samaritan?” I asked, 
in order to change the subject. “I’m afraid you’ve 
left her entirely to the hotel-keeper, without even 
paying a penny for her board.” 

A spoonful of bread and gravy stopped half-way 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


J 2 I 


between plate and mouth, but it soon resumed its 
journey as the child said: 

“I’ll give Mistress Drusillaan’ Miss Dorcas lots 
of kisses after dinner. Dey often give me pen- 
nies for kisses, so it’ll be all right. ” 

“To be sure it will, pet.” 

“ Certainly, darling. ” 

“ Dat’s all fixed, den,” said the child, redoubling 
for a little while her attentions to her plate ; then 
she said, between mouthfuls: “When you see dat 
picture you’ll fink it’s like my fahver, too.” 

“ Oh,” exclaimed Mistress Drusilla, “ I’ll be real 
glad. I always did say that the picture your 
grandmother has doesn’t do your father justice. 
There’s so much in his face that men don’t seem 
to see: it takes a woman’s eye to understand all 
that's good in a man of that kind. ” 

“ Little girls’ eyes can do it pretty well, I fink,” 
remarked Alice Hope, as she passed her plate for 
morJ j inner. 

“ So they can, pet,” said Mistress Drusilla. 

“Indeed yes,” assented Miss Dorcas. “You’ll 
show us the picture right after dinner, won’t 
you?” 

“The silly child,” said I, “found a fancied re- 
semblance to her father in a wretched daub of a 


122 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


paper doll, which I afterward changed to make it 
look as I wanted it.” 

“ Yes, but you’s goin’ to make it back again de 
way it was, don’t you ’member, when it gets 
dry?” 

“ If I can, dear,” said I, controlling by a violent 
effort my impulse to speak in my severest class- 
room tone and refuse entirely to touch that de- 
tested daub again, Then I mentally informed 
myself that if I were not wise enough to make 
away with that scrap of paper before it could 
make more trouble I was not worthy of my old 
self. 

The meal proceeded without further disturbing 
remarks; and as after dinner little Alice was in- 
vited to the kitchen to feed the kitten while the 
hostesses cleared the table, I had time to go to my 
room, lock the door, and apply a match to the pict- 
ure which resembled two different men. I even 
softly crumbled the charred remains into a tiny 
heap of ashes, and, provokingly enough, dropped 
a tear upon them. I am sure I did not mean to 
cry over a lost love — the memory of a man who 
had for years been another woman’s husband — 
yet somehow it happened. Tears are most un- 
reasoning things: they persist in following one 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


I23 


another even when they can’t help knowing they 
are not wanted, and the more unconscious one 
tries to be of their presence the more they persist 
in reddening the eyes. Fortunately, a child as 
young as Alice would not notice that I had been 
crying; so I hastened to wipe my eyes and cool 
them with a damp handkerchief, and as soon as I 
heard little footsteps on the floor below I hastened 
to hum a tune and to begin a water-color sketch 
of the scene from the window in front of me. It 
was not difficult work at the start, for a single 
tone of green answered for the mass of old spruces 
which shut out everything else but blue sky. As 
the child bounced into the room and saw what I 
was doing, she uttered a long-drawn “Oh-h!” and 
stood motionless, though she broke the silence 
every two or three moments by softly murmuring, 
“Dear me!” “Gracious!” “Well, I never!” or 
some similar expression of wonder. When finally 
I stopped a moment to contemplate the sketch, 
she said: 

“ Dat’s just too lovely for any fin’. I fink you 
might let me bring up Mistress Drusilla and Miss 
Dorcas to look at it. Dey don’t have lots to make 
’em happy, you know: dey don’t have noffin’ but 


124 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


“ They shall see it, dear, when it is done. You 
shall give it to them.” 

“ Oh, you dear, good old fing!” the child ex- 
claimed, throwing her arms around me. “ But 
don’t you fink ’twould make ’em happier to see it 
growin’? It’s so perfectly wonderful to see a lot 
of outdoors grow on a piece of paper dat way. ” 

“Very well, dear: you may ask them to come 
up, if you like.” 

“Goody, goody, goody!” Away went little 
Alice, and several minutes afterward the two old 
sisters came in as softly as if they feared they 
might break the picture if they made a noise. 
They were as much pleased as any artist could 
have hoped ; so what I had begun in desperation 
I began to finish with extreme care. A ring at 
the door called them away suddenly, and no sooner 
had they departed than the child said, timidly: 

“ Don’t it need to get dry before you finish it?” 

“Yes, dear.” 

“ Den let it rest a little while, can’t you, an’ 
make my fahver’s picture back right again.” 

“I’m very sorry, dear” (I really was sorry for 
her sake) , “ but — I began doing something to it 
as soon as I came up, and somehow I spoiled it 
entirely. ” 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


125 


“ So it can’t be fixed, nohow?” 

“Nohow, dear.” 

“ Dat’s too bad,” she said gravely, as she seated 
herself on the bed. I was greatly relieved at find- 
ing her take the announcement so calmly, and told 
myself, as I went on with my sketch, that I might 
have expected as much ; children’s thoughts are 
short-lived. Soon, however, a strange sound from 
the bed made me turn quickly and behold little 
Alice crying as if her heart would break. Seeing 
that I noticed her, she sobbed : 

“ I ain’t seen my fahver in — four whole days 
an’ — dat picture was ’most as good as seein’ him 
again, an’ — I’s been finkin’ about it ever since 
. you said you could make it over again, an’ — an’ 
I can’t! Oh, dear, dear!” 

“You poof, dear child,” said I, hastening to 
comfort her; “it is too bad; but just think how 
you’ll see your father himself pretty soon, instead 
of an old piece of paper. ” 

“ I know it ; but I did — oh, I did want to see 
dat picture again — so much!” Then came a fresh 
flood of tears. 

“Alice, dear,” I whispered in desperation, fear- 
ing my landladies might return, “ if I try to make 
a picture just like it again, will you promise not 


1 26 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


to talk about it — to anybody? I don’t like to have 
my pictures talked about — by any one. ” 

“I’ll promise,” she exclaimed, springing up. 

“ I’ll promise, certain sure.” 

I reseated myself quickly, and began to draw. 

It was not difficult to outline the face I remem- 
bered so well, yet I did it with a feeling of savage 
desperation, wishing heartily that there was no 
such thing as resemblance in the world. As I 
dropped my pencil to take a softer one for shad- 
ing, a little hand stole in front of me, took the pa- 
per, and kissed it repeatedly. I attempted to take 
it back, saying;. 

“ It isn’t finished yet, dear.” 

“It’s finished enough for me,” the child re-, 
plied, still retaining the picture. “ Dear old fah- 
ver! Don’t you fink he’s lovely?” 

“ I think he — the picture — is fine-looking,” I ad- 
mitted. 

“ Den why don’t you kiss it?” she asked. “ I 
don’t see how you can help it.” 

Then, suiting the action to the thought, she held 
the picture in front of me, while with one chubby 
hand she pressed it to my lips. 


FIFTH DAY. 


EXCURSIONS, RURAL AND OTHERWISE. 

“You isn’t much like uvver city folks, is you?” 

This question, propounded the morning after the 
storm, and while I did not imagine any one was 
near me, startled me as if it were the traditional 
thunder-clap from a clear sky. I had awoke to 
find the rain ended and the few remaining clouds 
melting away before the sun. They acted like so 
many mischievous school-children shrinking into 
their seats on the approach of their teacher. I 
had eaten my breakfast hastily, and gone out to 
the piazza to enjoy the spectacle of the early mists 
moving about over the lowlands, a mile or two 
away, between the house and the ocean. The 
warmth of the sun was so welcome, and the air 
so fresh and balmy, that I soon hurried to the edge 
of the pine grove to enjoy a view entirely un- 
obstructed by trees or shrubbery. I was contem- 
plating in absolute ecstasy a picture such as I never 
before had imagined could be painted even by 
127 


128 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


nature, when suddenly I was obliged to recall 
another and smaller work of nature by the question 
quoted above. 

“ My dear child,” said I — not in my most pleas- 
ing tone, I fear — “how you startled me! How is 
it that you always appear so suddenly?” 

“ Suddenly?” the little one echoed, as she looked 
at me with a quizzical air. “ Why, I’s been stand- 
in’ here about an hour, wonderin’ how you could 
keep standin’ still so long.” 

“ An hour? I was asleep in bed an hour ago.” 

“Was you? Well, it seemed an hour, anyway. 
It always seems an awful long time when any- 
body stands as still as if dey was dead. When I 
does any fin’ naughty an’ my fahver stands an’ 
looks at me an’ just keeps still, it ’pears like a hun- 
dred hours. But you isn’t, is you?” 

“I’m not what?” 

“ You isn’t like uvver city folks, I mean. Here 
you’s been here lots or days, an’ you ain’t ever 
been on any ’scursions. Anyway, if you have, I 
ain’t heard of ’em; you didn’t tell anyfin’ about 
em, or take me wiff you.” 

“Ah! I see; at least, I think I begin to see,” I 
replied, looking keenly into the little face, which 
returned my gaze as innocently as if its owner 


i 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


I29 


were not under suspicion of indulging in an artful 
little trick. “ Did you come over here, so early in 
the morning, merely to tell me this?” 

“No,” said the child, raising a chubby hand 
with a letter in it. “ I just come to bring a letter 
gran’ma got from de post-office for Mistress Dru- 
silla. We gets her letters for her, ’cause she ain’t 
got anybody to send to de post-office. But I 
fought of it while I was cornin’ along; so I fought 
I’d say it.” 

“I beg your pardon,” said I, mentally inform- 
ing myself that being a teacher of bad children 
was making me shamefully suspicious. 

“Seein’ dat I fought about it, an’ said it,” con- 
tinued the child, “ you might tell me. My fahver 
says dat when city people come to de country to 
rest de first fing dey do is to get ’emselves tired 
to deff goin’ on ’scursions. But you ain’t dat 
way, is you? Dat’s what I said first, you know.” 

“ I might be,” I murmured, looking again at the 
glorious landscape, and wishing I might have a 
ploser view of some charming bits of wood and 
field that arrested my eye — “ I might be, if I had 
^ny one to go with me and guide me to what is 
worth seeing.” 

“ I don’t fink you’d have any trouble about dat,” 
9 


130 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


said the child, “ for my fahver says he don’t know 
of a nicer person to go on a ’scursion wifif dan me.” 

“ Indeed?” 

“ Yes, indeed an’ in trufe. He’s tried lots of 
uvver folks, he says, an’ nobody ’joys ev’ryfin’ he 
’joys as much as me.” 

“ That is»quite a comprehensive recommendation 
for a companion,” said I. “I suppose you enjoy 
stopping to fish in every brook, and listen to talks 
of farmers about pigs and ploughing, and throw 
stones at birds, and — — ” 

“Well!” interrupted the child, “if dem’s de 
kind of fings you likes to do on ’scursions, I guess 
I don’t want to go wiff you.” 

“Excuse me, dear,” said I, quickly. “You 
spoke of going with your father; and I merely 
chanced to think of what men seem to enjoy when 
they go into the country.” 

“ Gracious me!” the child exclaimed. “Where 
did you ever know such awful men as dat? I guess 
your gran’ma ain’t very puttikular about de kind 
of folks you get ’quainted wiff.” 

I attempted to annihilate the child with an in- 
dignant glance, but did not succeed, for she looked 
at me curiously and repeated her question ; finally 
I meekly answered; 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


131 

“ I don’t know any such men, dear, but often I 
hear men talking in the cars in the city, of where 
they’ve been in the country, and what they’ve 
done, and unless they’ve killed something or made 
fun of somebody they don’t seem to have enjoyed 
themselves.” 

“ Den I guess you never saw my fahver any of 
dem times,” said the child, “for he don’t like to 
kill anyfin’ but snakes and ’skeeters. When he 
goes on ’scursions he shows me ev’ryfin’ dat’s 
lovely to look at. Gran’ma says she does b’lieve 
he’d see somefin’ new if he went froo de same 
road ev’ry day, an’ I guess he would, ’cause he 
always does it when I go wiff him. Sometimes 
dere’s men dat paints pictures comes out to spend 
Sunday wiff him, an’ he shows ’em just where to 
find fings to make pictures out of.” 

“ Your father must be very different from other 
men,” I ventured to say. 

“Well, I ’most always goes wiff ’em on ’scur- 
sions, an’ dey don’t do none of dem horrid 
fings you said. Guess you ain’t seen only one 
kind of men; my fahver says dere’s lots of 
kinds.” 

I did not explain to the little defender of her 
father’s sex that my acquaintance with men was 


1 3 2 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


limited and formal, and that the only man with 
whom I had talked freely had never conversed 
much about excursions. One of the many differ- 
ences of opinion between Frank Wayne and me 
was that he had insisted that my ideas of the mas- 
culine mind and nature had been gathered from 
chance remarks of men whose talk I had over- 
heard, and it did not promote further confidence 
between us that I retorted to this that his ideas of 
women had been deduced from paragraphs in the 
humorous newspapers and from the published 
rantings of some women who professed to repre- 
sent their sex. 

Finding myself recalling this unpleasant epi- 
sode, I called myself to account for reverting to the 
past while the present, for one morning at least, 
was so glorious. 

“It’s just de day for a good ’scursion, ” remarked 
Alice Hope — “just de kind of day my fahver 
likes. He says dat after de rain has washed de 
air clean, an’ made de dust lie down an’ keep still, 
an’ de sun’s come out, is just de time for a long 
walk, if a person wants to get deir eyes full of 
fings worf seein’. Gran’ma said dis very mornin’ 
dat she was sure my fahver was finkin’ more about 
home dan his business.” 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


1 33 


“Why shouldn’t I enjoy a little walk with this 
child for guide?” I asked myself suddenly. My 
landladies had assured me, when I first arrived, 
that I might feel perfectly safe in roaming about 
the country near by, for all tramps had been 
frightened away by a stern local edict, mercilessly 
enforced, and I need never be out of sight of a 
house. The air was. so bracing that I felt as if I 
could walk miles. 

“ Suppose you and I were to make a little trip 
this morning, dear?” said I. “ I fear you would 
soon be tired.” 

“Oh, no, I wouldn’t,” she replied. “My fah- 
ver says I’m a regular trotty pug — dat means some- 
fin’ dat can keep goin’ ever so long. Beside, if 
I do get tired I ain’t a bit hard to carry: my fah- 
ver says so. Just feel.” 

She put up her hands so innocently that I should 
estimate her weight, that I took her quickly into 
my arms and hugged her soundly. Meanwhile 
she continued: 

“ I don’t ever get tired, dough, unless we forget 
to take fings to eat wiff us. Mistress Drusilla fixes 
# awful nice lunch-baskets to carry on ’scursions, if 
she knows I’m goin’ along; I know she does, 
’cause she done it for some ladies dat come here 


i34 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


last year. I’ll tell her about it, soon as I give 
her dis letter ; den we can start.” 

“Won’t your grandmother be worried at not 
finding you returning at once?” 

“Oh, no; gran’ma says she never worries about 
me when I’s come over here, ’cause she knows 
where I is. Beside, she says she never ’spects to 
see me till dinner-time, if I come here in de 
mornin’. I’ll tell Mistress Drusilla about de 
lunch-basket right away.” 

Away through the trees hurried the child, while 
I followed slowly for the parasol, gloves, and 
other things without which no woman is supposed 
to venture beyond the enclosing boundaries of her 
home. I reached the house only two or three 
minutes later than the child, but already my land- 
ladies were in a high state of excitement. 

“I’ve put half a dozen eggs to boil, my dear,” 
said Miss Dorcas, who met me at the door, “ and 
I’ve got in the basket half a boiled chicken al- 
ready carved, some ham sandwiches, three kinds 
of cake, and some oranges. Do you think there 
will be enough?” 

“Mercy!” I exclaimed. “We shan’t be gone 
more than an hour or two. I imagine a bit of 
cake in a napkin, to comfort the child when she 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


135 


thinks herself hungry, will be sufficient. Of course 
we will be home by dinner-time.” 

“ So every one thinks, dear, when starting for 
a walk in this country; but you’ve no idea how 
much there is to see, and how our fresh air sharp- 
ens the appetite. And dear little Alice is grow- 
ing T you know, and growing children ” 

“Ah! I see,” said I, thinking it wiser to carry 
what had been provided than to protest. We 
might meet some poor person who would grate- 
fully accept the surplus. 

“ If you only say so, my dear, ” said Miss Dor- 
cas, “ I can just as well pack a custard pie so you 
can carry it.” 

“Please don’t, I beg,” said I: “I don’t want 
to ruin the child’s digestion.” 

“Just as you say, my dear. About something 
to drink: milk soon spoils in this weather if it 
is carried long, but every living body on every 
road knows Alice, so you can get a glass of milk 
anywhere, and if you stop at any house for a min- 
ute the folks will be sure to ask you to take a cup 
of tea. ” 

Meanwhile, Mistress Drusilla and the basket, 
escorted by little Alice, came from the kitchen. 
The instant the old woman placed the basket on 


136 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


a table in the hall the child peered into it and 
asked : 

“Is you sure you’s got enough? Last time I 
went on a ’scursion wiff a boarder she got so hun- 
gry dat I was ’most starved.” 

“We’ve enough,” said I, “to last several fam- 
ilies from breakfast to noon.” Then, in fear that 
the custard pie might still be imposed upon us, I 
seized the basket and began the excursion by 
hurrying into the path that led from the house. 
As I looked backward to see if the child was fol- 
lowing, I beheld the two old sisters standing side 
by side at the door and regarding us with an af- 
fectionate solicitude which really was touching. 

“ Dis is just de loveliest air dis mornin’,” re- 
marked my companion and guide as she led the 
way to the road. “ Don’t it make you feel as if 
you could just fly?” 

“Almost,” I admitted as a gentle breeze passed 
by, laden with a mingled perfume of ocean and 
clover-blooms. 

“I’d like to fly, just to see how it feels,” said 
the child; “but, seein’ I can’t, I don’t like to feel 
as if I would. You know how not to feel dat way, 
don’t you?” 

“I fear I don’t.” 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


137 


“ Why, you just make yourself heavier, den you 
don’t feel so light. Don’t you see?” 

“But how? Are we to load ourselves with 
stones, as I am told travellers sometimes do on 
windy mountain-sides?” 

“Goodness! no,” said the child, lifting the lid 
of the basket. “ All you have to do is to eat some- 
fin’ — all you can, an’ as soon as you can. I won- 
der if dese eggs is hard-boiled?” (Here she 
stooped and cracked one against a stone.) “ Yes, 
dey are. Gran’ma says hard-boiled eggs is heavy 
on one’s stomach. Don’t you fink you’d better 
try one?” 

“Thanks, no,” said I, breathing in great 
draughts of the delicious air. “ The mere men- 
tion of anything to eat is dreadful.” 

“ Dat’s funny,” murmured the child, between 
mouthfuls of egg. “ I fink it’s lovely. I guess 
you don’t like eggs, do you?” 

“ No — yes; but not to-day.” 

“ I’s awful glad,” said the child, taking another. 
I remembered Miss Dorcas’ remark about “ grow- 
ing fast,” so I did not restrain her. Meanwhile, 
we slowly descended a long hill and reached a lit- 
tle brook, along one side of which was a path, into 
which the child stepped. 


^8 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


“ Where are you leading me, dear?” I asked. 

“To de big oaks,” said she, pointing far ahead; 
“ don’t you see?” 

I recognized them as a clump of trees I had ad- 
mired from my place of lookout on the top of the 
hill. Evidently my little guide had a sense of the 
picturesque. 

“ Do you admire the big oaks, dear?” I asked. 

“ ’Deed I do,” she replied. “ You just ought to 
hear my fahver tell me stories about ’em — about 
how George Washiton rested under ’em, an’ 
folks had church under ’em, an’ some uvver folks 
hid in de tops of ’em, an’ Injuns had chats under 
’em, an’ missionaries had prayers under ’em. 
An’, oh, dey’s just de loveliest place in de world 
to eat lunch under. I wish I was dere dis min- 
ute.” 

“You poor child!” said I, looking into the bas- 
ket and finding but one egg remaining ; “ are you 
hungry?” 

“I’s ’most starved,” said the child, stopping in 
the path and turning upon me a mournful look. 
“ I don’t see how I can wait till we gets to de big 
oaks. ” 

“Try a sandwich, dear,” said I, opening the 
basket. My hand found two instead of one, but 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


39 


the child did not recognize the difference; she 
took both, and ate them as she walked. 

The “ Big Oaks” were not of the great variety 
of views to which distance lends enchantment. 
The nearer we approached, the more majestic and 
picturesque they appeared, and on reaching them 
I was delighted to find that the owner, with :i 
spirit unusual in this land of superfluous trees, 
had the ground beneath them kept clear of fallen 
boughs, straggling weeds, and other customary 
cumberers of America’s natural groves. I spread 
upon the ground a light shawl I had brought 
with me, and, reclining upon it, cast my eyes 
along the broad hill from which we had come. 
Everything really rural was new, strange, and de- 
lightful. My family had spent summers in coun- 
try villages constructed by New York architects, 
but here was a wide expanse of country broken 
into small fragments by stone walls, hedge-rows, 
and cliffs. It seemed like the country I had seen 
described in some books — the country of the 
farmer, not the landscape-gardener — and I gazed 
upon it with delighted eyes. Little Alice Hope 
approached me occasionally ; I heard her footsteps, 
saw her figure to the right or left, but I was not 
in the mood to be interrupted, even by a very 


140 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


sweet and companionable child, though I prom- 
ised myself to love her the more for not disturbing 
me during the happy half-hour I spent in absorb- 
ing the view before me. I was in closer com- 
munion with nature than ever before; she, the 
truest child of nature I had ever met, evidently 
was in sympathy with me. I did not forget how 
she, the dear child, had taught me to lose myself 
in looking at the ocean, a day or two before. 
Doubtless now she, like me, was again becoming 
the mere mirror, the recipient, of what heaven 
and earth were spreading before us in such be- 
wildering profusion. Probably she was longing 
to voice her impressions ; the language would be 
childish, but there are times when heart speaks so 
truly to heart that words are nothing. 

“ Alice, dear/* I said, turning my head lazily on 
the arm on which it rested. 

In an instant I heard gentle foot-falls near me; 
then they paused. 

“Alice, dear,” I continued, “are you happy? 
Isn’t it lovely? Are you filled with ” 

“It’s lovely,” she replied — “all but de sand- 
wiches; dey’s got so much mustard in ’em dat 
dey bites my froat.” 

I looked up quickly, and saw a pretty little 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


141 

mouth discolored with egg, and two little hands, 
one of which held a leg of chicken and the other 
a piece of cake. I suppose my look was not sym- 
pathetic, for the child trembled a little as she said 
quickly : 

“ Don’t be ’fraid. I left you ’most all de sand- 
wiches. Miss Dorcas said when she fixed ’em dat 
she hoped dey’d suit you, ’cause she’d put extra 
mustard in ’em, ’cause all boarders from de city 
always liked lots of mustard.” 

I arose hastily and examined the lunch -basket 
— not for selfish reasons, but merely from curi- 
osity as to juvenile capacity. It contained one 
egg, a single (and small) bit of cold chicken, 
several sandwiches, but no cake. Then I lifted 
it ; it had been heavy when we started, certainly 
not more than an hour before; now it was very 
light. I replaced the basket on the ground, 
looked at the child from various points of view, 
and at last placed one hand cautiously on her 
waist-band and another on her back. Finally I 
asked : 

“ Where did you put all the luncheon, dear?” 

“ In my mouf,” was the reply. 

“ H’m! Do you feel bad in any way?” 

“ No, indeed. I feels awful good. I feels like 


42 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


takin’ a real nice long walk, now, soon as you’s had 
your lunch. ” 

“I’m not hungry,” said I, abruptly closing the 
basket, picking up my shawl, and starting for- 
ward. Was it possible that this child, and her 
grandmother and parent, were so poor that they 
were not properly fed? I knew, from what home 
missionaries had told me, that many of my pupils 
came breakfastless to school. Could it be that this 
cheery, uncomplaining little sprite was really a 
child of poverty and with characteristic American 
fortitude had been bravely ignoring her misfor- 
tune while in the presence of a stranger? I would 
find out. 

“Alice, dear,” said I, “at what time did you 
breakfast?” 

“Oh, about half-past seven — de usual time.” 

“You weren’t very hungry, were you?” 

“H’m! I guess you don’t ’member when you 
was a little girl, do you?” 

“ Perhaps not,” said I. “ Did you eat much?” 

“I don’t know,” said she meditatively. “Let’s 
see: I had boiled hominy, an’ oyster stew, an’ 
fried ham, an’ some toast — dat’s all, ’xcept some 
milk an’ two cups of cocoa.” 

I looked at her in amazement. She was not a 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


143 


large child, nor at all rotund. Unconsciously I 
recalled Goldsmith’s rustics in the presence of 
the village teacher : 

And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew, 

That one small head could carry all he knew. 

Evidently it was time to change the subject, so 
I said: 

“What are we to do next? You are the guide 
of this expedition, you know. ” 

“I fink,” said the child, after a moment of 
thoughtfulness, during which she did not relax 
her attention to a bit of cold chicken, “ I fink we’d 
better walk up de Damascus road; dere’s lots of 
blackberries an’ cherries on top of de hill. Den 
we can go down-hill to Smiff’s farm; dey have 
awful nice milk dere.” 

This was not what I had expected. I had been 
looking forward to a hap-hazard ramble which 
should be made delightful by the surprises and 
humors of childish prattle, but it seemed that Miss 
Alice Hope had designed a mere progressive 
luncheon-party. I was disappointed. Probably 
my face said as much, for soon the child re- 
marked : 

“ If you don’t like dat way, let’s go out by de 
Norf road ; den we can rest at de house where dey 


144 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


always give sweet cider an’ molasses-cake to nice 
folks dat stop dere to rest.” 

“Any way you like,” I replied, with becoming 
resignation. I could at least gratify my curiosity 
as to the digestive capacity of a child. 

We started on the Damascus road. It wound 
leisurely around a long hill, but, fortunately, 
the basket was not so heavy as when we started ; 
indeed, it was so light that I did not scruple to let 
the child carry it. We found the blackberries, 
and the cherries too, and Alice Hope could not 
seem to get enough of them, although to me both 
tasted rather bitter. While my guide fed herself 
I lounged on a great warm flat stone under a 
cherry-tree and wondered what would happen were 
that child ever obliged to keep a church-fast of 
any kind. Years before, I had wondered at the 
appetites of some delicate-looking girls whom I 
met at evening parties, but none of them ever 
seemed so insatiately hungry as this atom of hu- 
manity. In the course of time, however, the child 
threw herself down beside me, and exclaimed: 

“Just isn’t dis world a pooty nice place?” 

“That depends,” said I, suddenly becoming se- 
vere of soul, “upon the place from which on§ 
looks at it.” 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


145 


“Make b’lieve it’s dis place, den,” said the 
child. “We’s got nice fings to look at, an’ it’s 
nice wevver, an’ we don’t feel so starved dat we 
wish de dinner-bell would ring right away. I fink 
it’s lovely — or I will, when we get to Smiff’s farm 
an’ have a lot of nice milk to drink.” 

“My dear little girl,” said I, feeling that the 
time had fully come for the utterance of some 
cautionary remarks, “I’m afraid that you think 
too much of mere animal pleasures. Eating and 
drinking seem to have filled your mind this morn- 
ing to the exclusion of everything else. ” 

“Well,” said the child, after a moment of won- 
dering stare, “I’s sure I’s got to. How’s I goin’ 
to grow if I don’t eat a lot? An’ if I don’t grow, 
how’s I goin’ to be a woman? An’ if I don’t get 
to be a woman, how’s I ever goin’ to be any good 
to anybody, ’xcept gran’ma and my fahver, an' 
maybe Mistress Drusilla an’ Miss Dorcas?” 

This seemed a reasonable question ; but I dis- 
sented from the conclusion. I had been taught 
that a ravenous appetite was bad for any one, and 
my settled convictions were not to be disturbed 
by the hunger of an unreasoning child, so I 
said: 

“ I hope, dear, you will grow to be a strong, 

10 


146 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


good woman and be very useful in the world ; but 
you can’t do it by thinking only of eating.” 

“Well, anyway, my fahver says it takes food 
to make brains, an’ de reason women ain’t so 
smart as men is dat dey don’t eat ’nough.” 

Women not as smart as men! All my suspi- 
cions of the father of this child came back to me 
with cumulative force. It was bad enough that 
any man should have such thoughts ; it was simply 
shameful that he should have put them into the 
mind of a child. 

“ My fahver takes me big walks,” continued lit- 
tle Alice, “so I’ll get a good appetite, an’ know 
my own mind so I won’t lose it when I see it, and 
fink about somefin’ else. He says he once knowed 
a lady dat would have been an angel if she’d 
only ate ’nough to know her own mind. I don’t 
see how she didn’t, I’s sure; I don’t ever have 
no trouble to eat ’nough.” 

“So it seems,” said I. 

“You know your mind, don’t you?” the child 
asked, raising the cover of the basket; “ ’cause, if 
you don’t, here’s ” 

I interrupted by taking the basket and making 
a mid-morning lunch on sandwiches. I was not 
hungry, but masculine criticisms of women always 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


147 


disturbed my mental equilibrium and made me 
angry. I felt like consuming something; the re- 
maining luncheon could endure it with least an- 
noyance to any one. 

“ You’s feedin’ your brains, ain’t you?” said the 
child, opening her eyes wonderingly. “I’s glad 
you ain’t dat kind my fahver told about.” 

Suddenly I threw away a sandwich I had in my 
hands, and closed the lid of the basket with a 
sharp snap. If, as one of my landladies had in- 
timated, this child unconsciously told stories at 
home, she should have no excuse to tell one at 
my expense. 

“I’s so glad you’s got froo,” said Alice Hope, 
“ ’cause now we can go to de milk place, an’ den 
to de cider-an’ -molasses-cake place. I was ’fraid 
you wasn’t goin’ to be hungry a bit, an’ den we 
wouldn’t have no fun. But it don’t take long to 
see dat you ain’t dat kind. Gracious! just didn’t 
you eat like ev’^fin’ while you was doin’ it?” 

We soon reached a crossing of the road, and 
little Alice, turning to the left, said : 

“Come on. Dis is de way to de Smiff farm, 
where dey always give folks nice milk, an’ de 
cider-an’ -molasses-cake place is just ” 

“Let us go the other way,” said I. The child 


148 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


looked at me inquiringly, then pathetically. Evi- 
dently she wanted milk, cider, and cake. But I 
was obdurate. Besides, I was determined to 
teach her that an unrestrained appetite was ab- 
solutely sinful. I did not doubt that her father 
and grandmother loved her dearly; but love, in 
itself, is no training for the duties of life. I had 
seen other children killed by kindness: no such 
fate should befall this little innocent — this child of 
exceptional promise — if I could properly tell her 
what her clear little head was wise enough to re- 
ceive. 

“Alice, dear,” said I, as the child reluctantly 
followed me on the road which led away from 
milk, cider, and cake, “ don’t you know that if you 
eat as heartily as you have done this morning — 
and in summer, too — you are in danger of becom- 
ing sick?” 

“Goodness! no. Real sick, or only make-be- 
lieve sick?” the child asked, with a fearless smile. 

“Real sick, of course,” said I. “I am not in 
the habit of making fun of serious subjects and 
scaring little girls. I like to see children well fed ; 
it almost breaks my heart to look at some of my 
school-children who do not get enough to eat. 
But ” 


well Out of it. 


149 


“ Den why don’t you ” 

“Feed them myself?” I wish I could, dear; 
but only a millionaire could do it. But, as I be- 
gan to say, you, a child, have eaten more this 
morning than I, a woman grown, would eat in 
two or three days. It isn’t right.” 

“ Dear me ! the child exclaimed, with a tender, 
pitiful look, “ is you always ’fraid to ask Mistress 
Drusilla or Miss Dorcas for more? I’ll ask ’em 
for you, if you don’t like to.” 

“Nonsense!” I exclaimed, curbing an inclin- 
ation to be angry. “ I don’t mean that I do not 
have enough to eat. Those good old women do 
everything they can to tempt me to take more ; 
but ” [here I tried to put force into my counte- 

nance as well as my words], “but I won’t be per- 
suaded to take more than I want. ” 

“ Say, den you better do de uvver way, if you 
know what’s good for you. You ought to hear 
my fahver tell about de two men dat built houses. 
Did you ever hear about dat?” 

“Not that I can remember.” 

“Well, ’twas dis way: I can’t tell it as good as 
my fahver, but I’s pooty sure I know it all. Once 
dere was two men dat went to work an’ built 
houses. One of ’em found somefin’ solid to build 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


15° 

his house on, but de uvver went an’ put de tim- 
bers right on de sand. Well, one day, along come 
a big storm, an’ it rained like ev’ryfin’, an’ de 
wind blowed awful, but it didn’t trouble de man 
dat had his house on somefin’ solid — ’way down 
on de rock. But de uvver man — when de rain 
come down in his yard it washed all de sand out 
from under de house, an’ left a big empty place 
dere, so when de wind come along it had a big 
hole to tumble de house down into.” 

“What has this story to do with eating?” I 
asked, somewhat shocked by the lack of applica- 
tion. 

“Well, my fahver says it wasn’t made about 
eatin’ ; but he told it to our preacher dat way one 
day, an’ said if de preacher ate more he wouldn’t 
get so tired out an’ find ev’ryfin’ so dark -lookin’, 
an’ de preacher’s wife told gran’ma, pooty soon 
after, dat her husband begun to get fat an’ jolly 
an’ have ’vivals of religion in de church. I don’t 
know what dem fings is; but gran’ma says dey 
make de preacher awful happy, an’ my fahver 
says it’s all ’cause he’s got a solid — solid — oh, 
dear ! what do you call dem fings dat houses stand 
on?” 

“ Foundations?” 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


151 

“Yes — dat’s it! ’cause he’s got a solid founda- 
tion now. Say! I’s so firsty dat I don’t know 
what to do.” 

“We’ll get some water at the first farm-house 
we come to, dear,” I replied. 

“ I don’t ’xactly want water; I does wish I had 
a drink of milk, like de Smiffs give folks.” 

I turned about and started in the direction the 
child had first taken. After that Miss Alice did 
not loiter behind, but took the lead, and moved 
forward so rapidly with her little feet that soon I 
began to tire of the pace, and, complaining of 
weariness, leaned against a stone wall to rest. 
The child looked at me curiously for a moment, 
and then said : 

“ I guess you hasn’t got a very solid foundation, 
has you? / feel as if I could walk all day long; 
but den my foundation is all right. ” 

“So I should imagine,” said I, suggestively 
shaking the basket, which contained only a sand- 
wich or two. 

We went on to the “ Smiff” farm, and Alice 
Hope speedily found a way of getting some milk. 
It required very little persuasion to make me also 
take some. The women of the house regarded 
me with devouring eyes, after the manner of 


I 5 2 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


country-people in general when they see strangers. 
After we departed the child remarked : 

“ Dem[s awful silly people. One of ’em asked 
me if I’d got a new muvver, an’ when I said ‘no’ 
she said it kind o’ looked as if I was goin’ to 
have.” 

I did not wish to learn any of the gossip or 
facts that might be current about the matrimonial 
intentions of the child’s father, but I could not help 
a sudden fear for the future of my little compan- 
ion were her father to fall in love after the acci- 
dental manner of most men. I had seen many 
good men unfortunately tied for life by merely 
lingering too long over the smile, the prattle, even 
the pose, of some girl whom I knew to be of un- 
formed character and small soul ; and some of the 
worst of these blunderers were widowers. I won- 
dered, as we strolled along hand in hand, how a 
father with such a child as Alice Hope could 
marry again without earnest thought as to how 
the change would affect his daughter. The more 
I thought on the subject, the more apprehensive I 
became for the child’s future. I became so ab- 
sorbed in the thought that I almost resolved to 
break my determination to know no one in the 
vicinity. I certainly was skilful enough at con- 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


153 


versation to learn from my landladies the name of 
the woman, if there really were one, of whom 
Alice’s father was fond; then I might become 
acquainted with her, and impress her with the 
child’s unusual sweetness and character. If she 
were truly womanly and conscientious, she could 
not take offence. My long and varied knowledge 
of child-nature ought to be to her sufficient excuse 
for my interest in her prospective daughter. 

Evidently little Alice had forgotten the personal 
remark made at the “ Smiff” farm, for at each 
turn of the road she announced the distance which 
still separated us from the place where cider and 
molasses-cake were always offered to visitors, and 
when finally we reached the house she took me in 
so suddenly that I had not time to protest against 
such intrusion. She led me into the sitting-room, 
and was greeted with affection and delight by a 
motherly-looking old lady, to whom she said : 

“ Missis Tree, I told de teacher you folks al- 
ways gave cider an’ molasses-cake to people dat 
come in to see you. ” 

The old lady laughed, looked at me, and said : 

“ One word for you an’ two for herself. I know 
that youngster of old. So you’re to be the new 
teacher, eh? Well, I’m glad you’ve got into the 


i54 


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neighborhood early enough to get ’quainted 
’round. What might your name be?” 

“My name is Ruth Brown,” said I; “but I am 
not to teach here. My school is in New York.” 

“ Oh!” said the old lady, with as much empha- 
sis as if I had been imparting valuable informa- 
tion. “Dear me!” Then she looked at me 
earnestly, as if I were the first human being she 
had seen in ages. How long she might have 
stared I do not know, for she was recalled to 
the purpose of our visit by Miss Alice remark- 
ing: 

“ Missis Tree’s molasses-cake is awful good; it’s 
almost as good as gran’ma’s.” 

Mrs. Tree laughed again, and left the room, 
though as she went through the door she glanced 
backward, apparently for another look at me. 
She was welcome to it — poor woman ! If my face 
could break for a moment the dreary routine of a 
farmer’s wife, I would be only too glad. The 
cider and cake were brought in profusion, and 
while the child consumed both rapidly, and I 
leisurely found them good, the old lady steadily 
consumed us with her eyes. Finally she said : 

“ Alice, I hope you are fond of Miss Brown?” 

“’Deed I am,” replied the child, through a 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


x 55 

mouthful of cake. “ She’s the nicest new friend 
I ever had. ” 

“That’s right, child; that’s right,” said the old 
lady with emphasis. Apparently I had made a 
favorable impression, and, as I always had credited 
old people with much shrewdness in judging hu- 
man nature, I felt flattered. When we arose to go, 
the old lady insisted I should go into her parlor a 
moment, to see a framed “ sampler” worked by her 
great-grandmother a hundred years before. No 
sooner were we apart from the child than the old 
lady said to me rapidly, and almost in a whisper: 

“ I do hope, Miss Brown, that you realize what 
a dear, smart little thing Alice is. ” 

“ Indeed I do,” said I heartily. “ I have already 
learned to love her dearly. ” 

“I’m so glad — so glad!” said she. Then she 
startled me by kissing me on each cheek, and 
apologizing for the liberty she had taken. 

As we resumed our excursion I found myself 
wondering what could be the mystery of public 
interest in Alice Hope. That every one liked the 
child I could easily understand ; but why should 
they be solicitous about her? From her own 
stories, I imagined her home-life must be happy. 
Could it be, as I had begun to suspect, that her 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


* 5 6 

father was about to remarry, and had selected a 
bride of whom the family acquaintance did not 
approve? The mere thought increased my solici- 
tude for the child, so that I placed my hand on 
her shoulder and drew her closely to me as we 
walked side by side. As we reached the next 
crossing, little Alice stopped, looked each way, 
and said: 

“ Here’s de dear old big road. I just love it, 
’cause it’s de way my fahver always comes home 
from de city.” 

° If you like it so much, let’s rest beside it for 
a while,” said I, spreading my shawl at the shady 
side of a clump of young sassafras-trees that had 
been washed by the shower and were diffusing 
a faint perfume in the warm air. I seated my- 
self upon the shawl, and the child, throwing her- 
self down, pillowed her head in my lap and began 
looking vacantly into the sky, while I looked 
thoughtfully into her dear little face and begged 
Heaven to forgive me for every impatient thought 
I ever had toward children. How long we were 
silent I do not know, but suddenly the child’s 
eyes, wandering toward mine, studied my face a 
moment ; then she sprang up and threw her arms 
around my neck, and exclaimed : 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


*57 


“ You’s just nicer dan any uvver new person I 
ever knowed.” 

I returned her caresses a hundred times, as I 
realized that soon I must part from her. She clung 
closely to me, and I prayed that I might never 
forget the sensation of those dear little arms so 
tightly clasped around me. But suddenly I heard 
some one approaching — evidently a man or boy, 
for the lively whistling of an air from “ Patience” 
was my first warning. I hastily prepared to look 
unconcerned. Little Alice, somewhat unceremo- 
niously placed upon her feet, looked around, and 
shouted : 

“Oh! dere’s my fahver!” 

As she ran to meet him, I hastily arose and 
looked quickly over my attire. Then I saw the 
child held in the arms of a broad-shouldered man 
who was kissing her repeatedly. As he released 
her and turned his face toward me, he exclaimed : 

“Ruth Brown!” 

And I, feeling as if the earth were reeling un- 
der me, gasped : 

“ Frank Wayne!” 


SIXTH DAY. 


THE UNEXPECTED HAPPENS. 

“Miss Brown,” said Frank Wayne, quickly re- 
covering his self-possession, though, from old ac- 
quaintance, I would not have imagined he had 
lost it, “I’m more thankful than I can tell that my 
daughter has found so good a friend.” 

I did not for a moment doubt that he fully 
meant what he said ; whatever his faults, he al- 
ways had been absolutely truthful. Nevertheless, 
I quickly replied : 

“ She never would have found me had I imag- 
ined that — that ” 

“ That she was my daughter?” 

“She said her name was Alice Hope; I never 
heard her called by any other name. ” 

“I am very glad,” said he, raising his hat — “I 
am very glad, for her sake, that you were kept 
in ignorance. She was christened Alice Hope, 
and seldom thinks of her family name. Perhaps,” 
he continued, with a frank old-time smile which 
158 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


159 


I never had forgotten, “you’ll pardon me if I’m 
a little glad for your sake, too? It is true that 
she is my daughter, yet every one who has met 
her seems to think her well worth knowing. ” 

“ I should be the last one to dispute it,” said I, 
looking down at the child, who stood motionless 
as a statue, except that her eyes, larger than ever 
before, wandered rapidly from her father to me, 
and from me back to her father. “ But I never 
imagined who was her father, or that his home 
was anywhere near. ” 

“ I’m very sure you did not,” said he, all vestige 
of his smile disappearing. Then came an awk- 
ward pause. I wished he would have tact enough 
to take himself away, even if he took my little 
friend with him — take himself rudely if necessary, 
rather than prolong my discomfort. 

“ I declare,” exclaimed Alice Hope at last, find- 
ing her tongue, “ I do b’lieve you bofe knowed 
each uvver, an’ I didn’t know noffin’ about it.” 

“You’re quite right, my darling,” said Frank. 
“ I was acquainted with Ruth — with Miss Brown — 
before there was any such little girl as you, and I 
found her the best woman in the world. ” 

I was unable to make a similar speech in reply, 
but, for fear the child would ask some question 


l6o WELL OUT OF IT. 

that would make the situation more unpleasant, 
I said quickly: 

‘‘Yes, Alice, your father called at our house 
sometimes, and, besides, we met at church. ” 

“ Where are you stopping? I suppose you are 
passing the summer here?” asked Frank, wisely 
hurrying to commonplace. 

“I am here only for this week,” said I 
quickly. 

“ She’s over at Miss Dorcas’ and Mistress Dru- 
silla’s,” said the child; “but, oh, dear ” 

“ Then we are all on the way home. Shall we 
walk along, and get out of this hot sun?” said 
Frank. 

He took a step or two forward, leading the 
child; I stood an instant trying hard to frame an 
excuse to return to one of the farm-houses we had 
passed, but Alice, looking back, returned, took 
my hand, and said: 

“Come along, Teacher.” 

There was nothing else to be done. Fortunately, 
I saw my boarding-house on the hill nearly a mile 
in front of us; I could soon make an excuse to 
leave the couple and go home by the shortest 
route, across the fields. So we walked along to- 
gether, we three. Meanwhile, there was one of 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


161 


us who did not take part in the discomfort of the 
others. 

“ I hope, little darling,” said Frank to his child 
— something had to be said to lessen embarrass- 
ment — “ that you haven’t made yourself trouble- 
some in any way to Miss Brown? I would like her 
to think you the best little girl in all the world. ” 

“ I’s sure,” was the reply, “ dat I’s been as good 
as pie. I hasn’t cried — not much, anyway — an 
I’s showed her all my doll-babies, an’ she’s been 
awful good to me, too; she’s ’mused me rainy 
days, an’ talked to me lots, an’ tried to teach me 
lots of fings. She made me lots of paper 
dolls yesterday, an’, oh, what do you fink? She 
dr a wed ” 

I gave her arm a quick, savage shake. She 
looked up inquiringly, and I gave her a warning 
look in return. Then I said quickly : 

“You should tell your father, Alice, how you 
were a good Samaritan yesterday.” 

“Oh, yes; an’ I’ll show him de kittie when he 
gets home. ” 

'‘Another cat in the house?” said her father. 
** I’m afraid we shall have to go into the menag- 
erie business if you continue to collect unfortunate 

birds and animals;’* 

II 


162 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


We were near the place where I should be able 
to free myself. Oh, that the few remaining steps 
might be quickly taken ! Soon we reached a field 
through which a path led toward my boarding- 
house. 

“Alice,” said I, stopping, “I’ll say good-by 
now, and hurry home, so as not to keep dinner 
waiting.” 

“What makes you call me ‘Alice’ so much?” 
she asked. “You ’most always calls me ‘dear’; 
an’ it’s a good deal nicer.” 

“Good-by, dear,” said I, offering her my right 
hand. She took it, took the other also, and at- 
tempted to drag me down to her upturned lips. I 
raised her, kissed her once, and whispered, softly : 

“ Remember your promise : not a word about 
that picture.” 

“ What did you say?” she asked, as I placed her 
on the ground again. 

“Nothing of any consequence,” said I, turning 
away. “ Good-day, Mr. Wayne.” 

“ Good-day, Miss Brown. ” 

I hurried along the path through the field as if 
I were trying to escape a pursuer. I felt my face 
ablaze and my heart in a tumult. Had ever wo- 
man found herself in a position so uncomfortable, 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


163, 


through no fault of her own? I was indignant at 
fate and at Frank Wayne. Of one thing I was 
certain: the first train for New -York should carry 
me away from the scene of such humiliation. 

Mistress Drusilla met me at the door, and asked 
for Alice ; I said she had gone home — that we had 
separated at the foot of the hill. Then I hurried 
to my room and began to pack my trunks, but 
within half an hour I had such a headache that I 
was obliged to lie down ; an hour later the pain 
was so intense that I was obliged to abandon my 
plan of starting for home that day. 

“ May I come in, my dear? ” softly spoke Mis- 
tress Drusilla outside my door the next morning. 

“Yes, "said I, faintly. 

“I hope you’re better this morning," said the 
old woman, standing at my bedside and regarding 
me tenderly. “Hadn’t I better send for our 
doctor? I did so hope you’d be feeling your very 
best to-day and to-morrow, for — for it’s so distress- 
ing to feel poorly Sundays, you know. There’s a 
full day before Sunday, though, and we ought to 
be able to nurse you into feeling all right by that 
time. ’Twould be a real pity to disappoint folks 
that’ll be going to church for the purpose of see- 


164 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


ing you. They’ve heard so much about you, you 
know, my dear.” 

“Heard so much? About me? From whom?” 
I asked rapidly, wondering if I were really awake 
or only dreaming. How could any one have heard 
anything about me, when I had met absolutely no 
one but my landladies and Alice Hope? Could it 
be that that innocent child — she could not be 
other than innocent bless her ! — was so confirmed 
in the gossiping habit peculiar to small commu- 
nities that she had visited all the other houses near 
by and talked about me? But, even were this 
true, what could she have said? During our sev- 
eral chance meetings I had said nothing about 
n^self, or anything else in particular; the child 
had done nearly all the talking. 

“Well, I’m sure I don’t know, my dear,” said 
Mistress Drusilla. “ I suppose they just heard it 
from one another. / never said a word, neither 
did Miss Dorcas, except to mention your name 
when folks found we had a boarder and asked who 
it was. They’d all heard of you before, so I sup- 
pose they ” 

“ Heard of me before?” I echoed, raising my 
head from my pillow in such haste that Mistress 
Drusilla retreated toward the door. 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


i 6 5 

“Don’t get excited, my dear: it’s dreadful bad 
for headaches,” said she, venturing to approach 
me after recovering from her scare. “You see, 
after Mr. Wayne married Alice Hope — the daugh- 
ter is named after her — and came down here to 
live, some of his friends came here summers to 
board, and one of them married a gal, like Frank’s 
own wife, who’d been born and brought up here, 
and he told his wife about Frank’s first sweetheart, 
and so when you came, and they heard your name, 
they couldn’t help putting two and two together.” 

I covered my face with a palm-leaf fan, and 
wished that darkness might cover me as a pavil- 
ion. Mistress Drusilla continued : 

“ He said Frank’s friends never could under- 
stand it, for you were a woman .of a million — 
those were exactly his words, my dear, according 
to that man’s wife — a woman of a million, and 
nobody could understand why he had changed his 
heart to a girl like Alice. She’s dead and gone 
now, dear soul; I’ve not a word to say against 
her, for she was as sweet and bright and cheery 
as a lark on a May morning; but — you’ll excuse 
me for saying it to your face — I don’t understand 
it myself, now I’ve come to know you. And 
Frank Wayne has always seemed such a good, af- 


i66 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


fectionate, loyal man: there’s no young man in 
this country who’s more respected.” 

In a moment the silence became oppressive. I 
was thinking rapidly, for the old woman’s remarks 
had led me, from a sense of humiliation at being 
an object of village gossip, to reviewing old times. 
I don’t know how it happened ; I suppose I merely 
thought aloud, when I finally said : 

“ It wasn’t his fault. I gave him no encourage- 
ment. I did not think I loved him.” 

“ So we heard afterward, my dear, through an- 
other friend of his, who said you were a prize 
worth any man’s winning, but that Frank had too 
much of the soul of a gentleman to force himself 
upon anybody that didn’t want him, and I’ve al- 
ways said — for I’ve watched young men in my 
time — that if his heart was hungering for love that 
it hadn’t got, ’twas no wonder he took Alice Hope 
in a hurry, for she was the sweetest thing, as 
I’ve said before, and I don’t see how any man 
could be near her for a little while and not fall in 
love with her. She’d refused a dozen likely young 
fellows, some of them very well-to-do, before he 
came along. But I’m glad everything is fixed be- 
tween you now. ” 

Again 1 started from my pillow, and again 


WELL OUT OF IT. 167 

Mistress Drusilla retreated to the door as I ex- 
claimed : 

“ Everything fixed? What do you mean?” 

“Why, my dear, only what I’ve heard. I don’t 
know where folks found it out, but they do say — 
I’ve heard it from several — that you and he had 
made up, and your coming here just now, seeing 
he’s going to begin his summer vacation next 
week, made me suppose it was so. I haven’t 
asked any questions of his mother-in-law, old 
Mrs. Hope, and those that have didn’t get much 
consolation, for the old lady said she didn’t know 
anything about it — that she never meddled with 
Frank’s private affairs, and was perfectly willing 
to wait until he should tell her. ” 

Again I dropped my head upon the pillow and 
buried my face. This, then, was the meaning of 
the remarks that had been made to little Alice 
the day before about the possibility of a new 
mother — the meaning, too, of the curious looks 
that had been fastened upon me, which I had at- 
tributed to rural curiosity about strangers ! 

To this I must attribute the kiss given me by 
the old lady at whose house we had taken cider 
and cake ! Oh, it was dreadful ! — dreadful ! 

“ I haven’t meddled in the matter in any way, 


1 68 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


my dear, I give you my word,” resumed Mistress 
Drusilla, “except, as I supposed the story was 
true, hearing it from so many, I tried to bring 
you and little Alice together and have you like 
her. I thought that if you were to be that young- 
ster’s new mother you had a right to know her as 
soon as possible, for nobody comes to know that 
child without feeling it a loss that they didn’t 
know her before. ” 

“ Mistress Drusilla,” said I, “ I must go away at 
once ; and I beg of you, as a true woman, who can 
imagine how another woman in such a position 
would feel, to explain when I am gone, for my 
sake as well as his, that all this gossiping story is 
a dreadful mistake. I have not seen Frank Wayne 
since his marriage; I have not heard from him, 
or known anything about him. If I had known 
he lived here I would not have come here for 
worlds. I selected your house merely through 
your advertisement in a New York newspaper.” 

“ Mercy on us!” gasped Mistress Drusilla. 

“You will do as I have asked, won’t you?” I 
asked earnestly. 

“ Indeed I will, my dear; I will do it carefully, 
as if you were my own daughter, though it’ll be 
with a sore heart. I supposed it all true, and I 


WELL OUT OF IT. 169 

hoped ” Here Mistress Drusilla burst into 

tears and hurried from the room. As she went 
out, in bounced little Alice Hope. 

“ Hello, Teacher,” she shouted, as if I were half 
a mile away. “ Ain’t you up yet?” 

“ I am feeling very poorly this morning, dear,” 
said I faintly, as she kissed me several times. 

“Well, well, I wonder whevver it’s de change of 
wevver? Gran’ma says she finks dat’s what’s de 
matter wiff my fahver, ’cause she guesses he 
didn’t sleep much last night, ’cause she heard 
him walkin’ in his room all sorts of times in de 
night.” 

I did not reply. Suddenly the child astonished 
me with a peal of laughter. I looked up inquir- 
ingly — indignantly, I fear. 

“De funniest fing!” she exclaimed. “Gran’ma 
tole me I mustn’t disturb him dis mornin’, ’cause 
he was quiet an’ she guessed he was asleep. But 
I didn’t believe just one kiss would disturb him, 
so I went in ever so softly, an’ he was layin’ on 
de lounge, just de way he come in de house. I 
wanted to kiss him on de mouf, ’cause his mouf 
is so sweet ; but his hand was dere, so I pulled it 
away a little bit, an’ dere was a card in it, an’ 
what do you fink was on de card? Why, your pic- 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


170 

ture ! I never heard of such a funny fing in my 
life. ” 

Bless the receptive depths of my pillow ! 

“Say, Teacher,” continued the child, after an- 
other laugh, “ can’t you get well right away some- 
how? ’Cause soon as my fahver wakes up we’ll 
go off on anuvver ’scursion — I don’t know where, 
but he don’t ever stay in de house days like dis, 
an’ he’s just de nicest person to go on a ’scursion 
wiff dat you ever saw.” 

“ I hope you will have a real pleasant time, my 
dear, but I can’t go. I am suddenly obliged to 
return to New York.” 

“O Teacher!” was the reply, in pitiful tones. 
I was sorry for the child, but my heart warmed 
at the thought that she — she, the dear little thing 
— would be sorry at my departure. I released my 
face from the hospitable pillow and looked at her: 
I saw tears coursing down her chubby cheeks, and 
a most forlorn expression on the little face which 
usually was so happy. Then I felt tears coming 
to my own eyes as I realized that I was about to 
lose my little friend — the first and only friend I 
had made in years. 

“Alice, dear,” said I, “come here.” 

The child sprang upon the bed beside me, 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


71 


smothered me with kisses, and finally pillowed 
her cheek, as soft and warm as a rose, upon mine. 
I returned her caresses with all my heart. She 
was his child, but she was my friend ; how much 
she had been to me during the past few days I 
had not fully realized until now. “ Blessings 
brighten as they take their flight.” The child 
finally concluded the interview by saying : 

“ I wish I could stay longer, but I must be home 
when my f ah ver wakes up; I’m always de first 
fing he asks for when he’s home.” 

“Good-by, blessed little girl,” said I; “don’t 
ever forget me, I beg of you.” 

“I don’t ever forget anybody,” said she, wrig- 
gling off the bed and hurrying away. 

This breaking of my only tie to the place I was 
in brought me to my senses and gave me com- 
mand of myself. Quickly dressing, and complet- 
ing my packing, I presented myself to my land- 
ladies with as composed a face, I fancy, as I ever 
wore in my life. I asked Mistress Drusilla to find 
me some one to take my trunks to the station ; I 
even ate a very hearty breakfast, and shamefully 
snubbed both landladies when they attempted to 
express sympathy in ways which were extremely 
creditable to their womanly sense of delicacy. 


172 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


After breakfast I had nothing to do, so I strolled 
in the garden. A temptation to go to the pines 
and recover my hammock was quickly put down. 
Little Alice might see me there. I had learned 
that through a rift in the trees a person there could 
be seen from the garden around her own home. 
One parting with that child was suffering enough ; 
I could not endure another. Besides, it seemed 
to me, though the old-fashioned mirror in the hall 
showed me otherwise, that my face was ablaze, 
and only the fresh air out of doors could cool it. 

I went from one old-fashioned flower-bed to an- 
other, picking flowers. My landladies had always 
told me to clip as freely as I liked, but I had 
responded only to the extent of a rose or two or 
a cluster of mignonette. Now, however, as I 
thought of the heat and solid walls of New York, 
I wanted to carry with me all possible natural 
recollections of the country, which never seemed 
more beautiful than that morning. Mistress Dru- 
silla also was in the garden, hovering' about me 
like a protecting angel — the blessed old blunderer! 
She passed me occasionally, apparently to give 
me a chance to speak if I chose; but I kept si- 
lence. The subject of our morning’s conversation 
should not again be alluded to if I could help it. 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


173 


Slowly I filled my left hand, then my arm, with 
roses, pinks, phloxes, branches of geranium, spra) r s 
of southernwood, and branches of lemon verbena. 
Then I stooped over a plant of forget-me-nots; 
it was the only one in the garden, so approaching 
footsteps prompted me not to take much, under 
the eyes of the owner. As I arose I heard : 

“You have very little of it, but can’t you spare 
a single sprig?” 

I looked up ; the voice was not that of Mistress 
Drusilla, but of Frank Wayne. 

“ Certainly, ” said I, as carelessly, I flatter my- 
self, as if speaking merely to an ordinary ac- 
quaintance. Indeed, what else was he, after 
what had happened? I laid the little cluster 
in my left hand, selected a blossom and gave it 
to him. 

“A thousand thanks,” said he, placing the flower 
in his breast instead of his button-hole. Then he 
seized my hand and said very fast : 

“ Ruth Brown, my daughter says you are going 
away to-day ; and I am sure I am the cause of 
your sudden departure. I came over to say that 
I would not have come home had I known you 
were here, and that it will be far better for me to 
go at once and leave you to continue your stay. 


174 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


I hear that you came for your health’s sake, and I 
feel like a felon at having disturbed you.” 

“ You are very thoughtful,” I replied, “ but really 
I must return to the city at once.” At the same 
time I tried to disengage my hand, but it was 
impossible. Frank had always been an amateur 
gymnast. 

“Then,” said he, “let me say one thing more. 
You are the noblest woman alive; I thought so 
when I first knew you, and I never changed my 
opinion: so I can’t bear to have you think ill of 
me in any way.” 

“ I don’t,” said I; “I never did.” 

“ I feared otherwise,” said he. “ At least I beg 
you to forigve me for anything I ever said or did 
that pained you. I had a most unformed, aggress- 
ive nature in old times; I have seen it plainly in 
later years, and blamed myself a thousand times 
for words which I am sure must have offended 
you. I beg you to believe that they were not in- 
tended as they sounded. Ruth— let me call you 
by the old name once more — Ruth, you were my 
God, and I was merely laying my heart bare be- 
fore you. ” 

“ No one could refuse such a complimentary 
apology, ” said I with a smile, I was anxious to 


- WELL OUT OF IT. 


75 


end the scene, for scene I was sure it was. Unless 
my landladies had suddenly changed their natures, 
those two estimable women were undoubtedly 
looking from windows commanding that portion 
of the garden. Again I attempted to release my 
hand, and I am glad to say I succeeded. Then I 
turned with great interest to a rose-bush at my 
left and selected a fine blossom. 

“Allow me,” said he. “Roses have thorns. 
Perhaps I know their ways better than you.” 
Then he cut the stem with his pocket-knife and 
proceeded to remove the thorns, saying, as he did 
so: “Won’t you allow me once more to be num- 
bered among your friends? I took myself away 
only when in a period of self-examination I be- 
lieved I was more annoying than pleasing to you. 
Will you believe me?” 

“I never could doubt your word,” I replied. 
“ I never did. ” 

“Heaven bless you!” said he. “Then you be- 
lieved ” 

“Please cut me soipe of these yellow roses,” 
said I ; “ their stems are a mass of thorns, you see. ” 

“You haven’t answered my first question,” he 
replied, attacking the spiny Persian roses. “ I 
asked you to let me be numbered oncg more among- 


76 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


your friends. I know, as I have said, that I was 
not entirely an agreeable companion in old times, 
but I beg you won’t think me conceited if I say I 
am now a better man. I have cultivated the vir- 
tue of patience, and I abominate men who insist 
upon arguing about everything. ” 

“What a remarkable change!” said I, extend- 
ing my hand for the roses. 

“Thank you,” said he; “no one has a better 
right to recognize it.” He cut another stem of 
yellow roses, and, as his knife rapidly broke 
away the thorns, he continued: 

“I’ve treated every roughness of my nature as 
mercilessly as I am treating these thorns. But 
may I remind you once more that you have not 
answered my first question?” 

“ Mr. Wayne,” said I, “you know I always liked 
you — as a friend. The break in our acquaintance 
was not of my making ; you simply ceased to call ; 
then I heard ” 

“Ruth,” said he; then he began to pour forth 
his story : how one evening, after leaving me, his 
conscience took him severely to task and con- 
vinced him that he was altogether too rugged and 
self-assertive of nature to be a fit mate for a wo- 
man like me, so had hurried away from the city 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


177 


to try to forget his presumption, and the conse- 
quent sorrow. He had gone with a party of 
friends to the country — just where I had chanced 
to come for my outing — and met a girl of whom 
he soon became very fond, and who seemed to like 
him. What had followed I already knew, but he 
assured me with the utmost earnestness that his 
married life had been very happy, and that among 
his recollections of his wife not one was unpleas- 
ant except that of having lost her. I was glad he 
was unable to see with what satisfaction I listened 
to this part of his story, for I feared a resemblance 
to what I had seen in some novels about inter- 
views somewhat similar. 

When Frank Wayne ceased talking it was not 
easy forme to reply. I could only tell him, which 
I did in entire honesty, that I was very sorry for 
his misfortune, and that I was very glad that he 
could find so much consolation by turning to his 
memory. 

“Besides,” said I, turning from one of the 
flower-bushes over which I had leaned while he 
talked — “besides, you still have your child, and 
she ought to be enough in herself to make any 
one happy for a lifetime. ” 

“ I am so glad to hear you say so!” said he. “ I 
12 


i 7 8 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


sometimes fear that I estimate her too highly — 
her character, I mean. As for herself, as my 
daughter she would be dear to me were she a help- 
less idiot. But she is a constant stimulation to 
my heart and head ; she always needs something, 
always wants to know something, always is so 
trustful, and affectionate, and sympathizing, and 
relies upon me, when I am at home, so entirely 
for everything, that I feel that I have more than 
any other man to live for. I have unmade and 
remade myself for that child’s sake, and the task 
has never been hard or unpleasing. Do you know 
that if that child continues as she has begun, and 
reaches womanhood with healthy mind and phy- 
sique, I shall think that I have really been good 
for something in this world?” 

“You will be quite justifiable in such case,” 
said I. He stood so manly, earnest, noble-look- 
ing, and modest, that I could not help admiring 
him, and wondering why he could not have had 
a similar face years before. 

“Fahver! Fahver!” 

Both of us looked in the direction from which 
the voice came, and we saw little Alice, in the 
edge of the pine grove. 

“Teacher? Tea — cher!” 


WELL OUT OF IT 


79 


“She wants both of us,” said Frank, turning 
half away, but looking backward at me. “Won’t 
you come?” 

To see the child, even afar off, was to break my 
resolution not to see her again ; so I followed the 
broad-shouldered fellow in front of me, though I 
could not keep pace with his rapid stride. 

“Fahver,” said little Alice, who as we ap- 
proached her got into my hammock, “ here’s 
Teacher’s hammock, an’ I want you to swing me 
in it. Teacher, you get in too; my fahver’s 
strong enough to swing two people.” 

“Thank you, dear, but I’d rather look at you, I 
think.” 

“ Oh, come on!” 

“You haven’t the heart to disappoint a child, 
have you?” said Frank, with a mock-solemn look 
which I remembered very well. 

“Come on,” repeated the child, looking toward 
me and holding up a doll. “ Besides, I’s brought 
Agonies over for you to see before you go, ’cause 
you said you liked her best of all my dolls. You 
can hold her in your lap if you want to. ” 

Compliance was easier than continued refusal, 
so I seated myself in the hammock beside the 
child, and the dreadful doll was dropped in my 


i8o 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


lap by way of reward. As the hammock moved 
to and fro, the child began her familiar song: 

Swing — swong. 

Swing — swong, 

Swing, ah, swingee, swing swong ! 

“Say, fahver,” little Alice suddenly shouted, 
“ is you gettin’ up a s’prise for me?” 

“A surprise?” said Frank from behind us, as 
he gave the hammock another push. “ That’s 
hardly a fair question, darling, and so near your 
birthday, too. Why do you ask?” 

“Oh, I fought maybe you was: dat’s all,” said 
the child, drawing back some flying locks from 
the brow of Agonies. 

“ Christmas is a good way off, and your birthday 
is not long past,” said the father, as he continued 
to swing the hammock. “ So I scarcely think 
surprises in order. What have you got into your 
little rattle-trap of ahead?” 

“ I hasn’t got any fin’ dere; somebody else put 
it dere,” was the reply. “ A lot of folks has been 
wantin’ to know if I was goin’ to have a new muv- 
ver, an’ I fought mebbe you was gettin’ up dat 
kind of s’prise for me.” 

The hammock began to move more rapidly and 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


181 


higher, at least it seemed so to me, for I began to 
feel dizzy. Any confidences that might ensue 
were not for me to hear. Then I rapidly recalled 
the remarks I had heard the day before, and what 
Mistress Drusilla had said to me, and I felt 
dizzier. 

“ Stop the hammock, please,” said I. “ It is too 
much for my head.” 

A strong hand on the cords stopped the ham- 
mock in an instant, and I got out so quickly that 
the motion threw little Alice forward to the 
ground, the first result of which was a long howl. 
I was on my knees in an instant, and had the child 
in my arms, trying to console her. Her father 
attempted to take her, but she clung tightly to 
me, as I passed my hand frequently across her fore- 
head and wiped the tears from her eyes. 

“ Ground is so awful hard when you lays down 
on it when you don’t mean to!” said she. 

” Indeed it is, poor little darling!” said her fa- 
ther. “ Don’t you want me to carry you right 
home and bind a wet handkerchief on your fore- 
head, as grandma does when you tumble down?” 

“No, I guess not,” was the reply. “Teacher’s 
hand comforts my head lots. ” 

“ Bless the teacher’s hand!” said the father. 


182 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


“Say, fahver!” said the child, a moment later, 
“if you is gettin’ up a s ’prise for me — dat kind of 
a s’prise I told you about, you know, about gettin’ 
me a new muvver — I fink I'd like it to be Teacher. ” 

My hand dropped from Alice’s forehead; my left 
arm, with its wealth of flowers, fell by my side. 
But the child did not fall; she only clung the 
tighter to me. From the silence that followed I 
indulged a wild hope that her father had been 
frightened away. But in a moment I felt warm 
breath on my cheek, and then a low voice said : 

“ Ruth, I alone am not worthy of you; but could 
you consent to be this dear child’s mother?” 

“Do it! Do it!” exclaimed little Alice, sud- 
denly forgetting her pain and looking into my 
face with dancing eyes. What could I do? Only 
what I did. I arose, took the child in my arms, 
and kissed her. Seeing this, Frank Wayne put 
his arms around us, and kissed us both — kissed us 
repeatedly. 

When finally I placed the child on her feet 
again, it was for an excuse to cast my eyes down- 
ward. As for little Alice, she immediately looked 
up at her father and said : 

“ Fahver, ain’t I a good guesser?” 

“I suppose so, darling; but why do you ask?” 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


183 

“ ’Cause I guessed right about the s ’prise — about 
de new muvver. I just knowed who it was goin’ 
to be.” 

“Indeed! How did you come to guess it, I 
should like to know?” 

“ Cause I saw you kissin’ her picture dis mornin’ 
when you was asleep on de lounge.” 

“ Alice — darling!” 

“I did, sure’s I’m alive. Anyway, it was in 
your hand, an’ your hand was right against your 
mouf. I told gran’ma about it, just before I come 
over here, an’ she said she guessed it was a sure 
sign.” 

Then it was Frank’s turn to look down and flush, 
so I felt encouraged to look up : seeing his embar- 
rassment, I found courage enough to laugh. He 
raised his head quickly, with the rarest smile I 
ever saw on a human face, and said : 

“ I’ll be glad to be laughed at to all eternity, if 
you’ll do the laughing, Ruth — darling.” 

I went to New York that afternoon. Happy 
though I was, and strong enough to meet what- 
ever the world might thereafter have in store for 
me, I could not let the village gossips see me again 
and whisper to one another, “ I told you so.” But 


184 


WELL OUT OF IT. 


first, three people sat in that hammock and talked 
rapidly and cheerily of the future. The smallest 
of the three did the most talking ; but whenever 
her father attempted to restrain her I stopped 
him, reminding him that I had promised only to 
be Alice Hope’s mother, so she was the person 
most concerned. 

All this occurred more than a year ago, yet none 
of the parties concerned seem to have any cause 
for regret. The only notable change — except 
that I am the happiest woman who ever lived — is 
in Alice Hope : her dolls, or “ babies, ” as she per- 
sisted in calling them, are entirely neglected; 
even Agonies, whom she most pitied, departed 
unmourned in an ash-barrel. The child spends 
all her waking moments in as close proximity as 
possible to a tiny being whom she calls “ Buvver. ” 


THE END. 


The “Broadway Series” of Novels. 


NEM NOiZEL BY CLKRK RUSSELL. 


PRICE, 50 CENTS. 


Alone on a Wide, Wide Sea: 

KN OOE7SN MYSTERY. 

By W. CLARK RUSSELL, 

Author of “ My Danish Sweetheart,” “ The Golden Hope,” etc. 


The publishers have much pleasure in presenting 
Mr. Russell’s latest novel as No. 9 of the popular 
“ Broadway Series,” and most heartily indorse the fol- 
lowing very flattering opinion of “ Alone on a Wide, 
Wide Sea,” quoted from the London Athenceum: 

“A most engrossing and pathetic romance. . . . Told with so 
much simplicity, freshness, and delicacy that it would be welcomed 
as the work of a clever story-teller even if its author had not already 
won for himself a secure place among the novelists.” 


Alone on a Wide, Wide Sea: 

KN OCenN MYST6RY. 

Published Exclusively in the “ BROADWAY SERIES ” by 
JOHN TX. THY LOR Sd CO„ 


NEW Y ORK. 


The “Broadway Series” of Novels. 


New Novel by the Author of “As in a Looking-Glass.” 
PRICE, 50 CENTS. 


CONSTANCE. 

By F. C. PHILIPS, 

Author of “ Jack and Three Gills,” “ The Dean and His Daughter,” etc. 


A Story of Extraordinary Interest and Dramatic 

Power . 


NEW NOVEL OF NEW YORK LIFE. 
PRICE, 50 CENTS. 


THE CATHERWOOD MYSTERY 

By ALBERT PLYMPTON SOUTHWICK, 

Author of “ Bijou,” “ Brown, the Lawyer,” etc. 


A c Detective Story of Dramatic Interest. 


JOHN THYLOR St CO, 


NEiA£ YORK. 


The “Broadway Series” of Novels. 


Two Powerful Romances by Mrs. CAMERON. 


Each, 50 Cents, in Paper. 


A LOYAL LOVER. 

By E. LOVETT CAMERON, 

Author of “ This Wicked World,” “ Deceivers Ever,” etc. 


A RATTLING NOVEL OF MODERN LIFE. 


‘'Strongly dramatic, cleverly managed, well written, with a 
tragedy developed with much power .” — Boston Saturday Evening 
Gazette. 


A HARD LESSON. 

By E. LOVETT CAMERON, 

Author of “ In a Grass Country,” ‘‘A Life’s Mistake,” etc. 


Mrs. Cameron has written many good books, but none 
better than this. 

“A charming story, graceful in style, crowded with incidents, 
often very dramatic, though never sensational in the bad sense.” — 
American Bookseller. 


JOHN H. THY LOR St CO., 


NEW YORK. 


The “Broadway Series' f of Copyright Novels. 


New Story by the Author of “Jacohi’s Wife.” 


NOW READY, PRICE 50c., 


jSir i^ntjjonij’g Secret; 

OR, 

A FALSE POSITION, 

TpE gTDI^Y OF \ MYgTE^IOUg NJA^IAljE. 


BY 

ADELINE SERGEANT, 

Author of “ Roy’s Repentance,” “ The Great Mill Street Mystery,” 
“ No Saint,” etc. 


Miss Sergeant’s books find a warm welcome wherever her dra- 
matic and original style is known. Her latest novel is one of her 
best efforts. The Publishers wish to emphasize the fact that 
Sir Anthony 9 s Secret is Copyright , and is Published 
only in The Broadivay Series by 

J0HN A. TAYL20R & 00., 

119 POTTER BUILDING, 


NEW YORK. 


fhe " Broadway Series” of Copyright Novels. 


SPLENDIDLY ILLUSTRATED. 

goCio-poLind^L ]Mel of life. 


NOW READY, PRICE 50 CENTS, 

DoIIarocracy 

AN ANONYMOUS 

AMERICAN STORY. 


T TESSRS. JOHN A. TAYLOR & CO. are gratified to be able to 
I announce their acquisition of the sole right to publish the 
^ above-named semi-satirical novel, the work of a practised but 
(for the nonce) anonymous author. 

“ DoIIarocracy ” is the story of a typical American. The hero 
illustrates in his own person the unique qualities and see-saw experi- 
ences of our ambitious public men. He is encircled by troops of 
friends, flatterers and foes, in society, in politics and in the press. 
The portraiture and the ever-varying play of these characters around 
the central figure make up a comedy-drama of daily life as sparkling 
and faithful as anything now current in fiction or on the stage. 


dopjJPigp and published E^cIu^iYeltf in 

THE “BROADWAY SERIES,” 

BY 

JOHN A. TAYLOR Sc CO., 

US POTTER BUILDING, NEW YORK. 


Mayflower Library. 

PUBLISHED MONTHLY. 


EVERY BOOK IN THIS SERIES IS COPYRIGHT, ALL ARE NEW AND ORIGINAL, 
AND EACH IS THE WORK OF A POPULAR AUTHOR. 


WELL OUT OF IT. 

By JOHN HA BEER TON. 

ONE TOUCH OF NATURE. 

By MARGARET LEE. 

THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 

By E. P. OPPENHEIM. 


WELL WON. 

By Mrs. ALEXANDER. 

BACK TO LIFE. 

By T. IV. SPEIGHT. 

THE OTHER BOND. 

By DORA RUSSELL N 


PRICE, 30 CENTS. 

May be had of all Newsdealers and Booksellers, or will be sent by 
mail, prepaid, on receipt of price. 

JOHN A. TAYLOR & CO., 


NEW YORK. 


SOME PRESS COMMENTS 

ON 

“Mayflower Library” Novels 


ONE TOUCH OF NATURE. 

One lays down the book with the sense of having made pleasant acquaintances. — 
New York A dvertiser. 

A charming fairy story of to-day. — Brooklyn Eagle . 

Plenty of thrilling sensations that give it a refreshing vigor. — Philadelphia 
Item. 

An intensely interesting story .—Pittsburg Press. 

A medal should be given to the author of this thrilling story. — St. Louis Republic . 

A bright little story that keeps the heart sweet and glad all the way through. — 
Detroit News. 

WELL WON. 

A clever and merry little story. — New York Herald. 

A capital domestic comedy. — New York Advertiser. 

This little romance will find plenty of admirers. — Pittsburg Bulletin. 

Wholesome and well flavored. — Minneapolis Tribune. 

An interesting story, delightfully told. — San Francisco News Letter. 

THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 

An interesting and extremely intricate story of crime and detection. — New York 
Herald. 

A n excellent story that will be read with pleasure by lovers of Gaborieu. — Chi- 
cago Mail. 

A powerful story, abounding in plot and well told. — Toronto Farm, 

There isn’t a dull page in it. — Lancaster New Era. 

BACK TO LIFE. 

A sensational novel, brightly written. — New York Independent . 

Will attract readers of the best class. — American Bookseller. 

Very well told. — Springfield Republican. 

Full of brisk action. — Philadelphia Item. 

WELL OUT OF IT. • • THE OTHER BOND. 

These books are in preparation. 

Anything from the pen of the author of “ Helen’s Babies” has an assured wel- 
come. “ Well Out of It ” is the story of a school teacher with a precocious protege 
who is the innocent cause of a very pretty love episode. 

Miss Russell’s The Other Bond ” secured second place in a vote for the mostin- 
teresting production current in the New York Ledger in February last. It is a thor- 
oughly good romance. 


JOHN A. TAYLOR & CO., 


NEW YORK. 


The “Mayflower Library” 

OF ORIGINAL FICTION. 


Brilliant Sensational Novel by the Author of “Out of Eden.” 


PRICE, 30 CENTS. 


THE OTHER BOND 

By DORA RUSSELL, 

Author of “ Footprints in the Snow,” ‘‘Jezebel’s Friei ds,” etc. 

“ The Other Bond,” published serially in the New York 
Ledger, was within nine votes of being selected in a plebiscite 
of readers as the most interesting of a large number of 
contributions by eminent writers to that publication. 


Will shortly he published : 

7X MODERN GIRL’S STORY. 

By Julian Hawthorne. 

7WVKISIE BOin^MKN’S FATE. 

By Grant Allen. 

7WY TWO WIMES. 

By Geo. R. Sims. 

THE DOVER EXPRESS. 

By Florence Warden. 

MIDCERY'S FLIGHT. 

By James Greenwood. 

7 S BITTER CUP. 

By Mabel Collins. 


JOHN H. THVLOR CO., 

NEW YORK. 


j Price 30 Cents 
o 

WELL OUT OF IT 


/nBYr\ 

JOHN HABBERfON 

Author of “Helen’s Babies,” “Out at Twinnett’s,” Etc, 



April, 1892. Issued Monthly. Annual Subscription, $3.00. 

Entered at the New York Post Office as Second Class Matter. 































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